Forever by the Sea
by TrappedInPast
Summary: SEQUEL TO HEARTS CAN BREAK! This is what happened to Jack and Rose after Titanic. They are not an immortal couple, so they must go through the scenic trials that all must go through while facing horrific memories almost no one has . . .
1. Standing Against the Spray

**Here's the first chapter, and I hope all this waiting was worth it! It took me forever to write, sorry about that, read and review!**

Jack sighed as he walked to the door of an apartment that, for him, was the only home he had had since he was fifteen. The paint was peeling, but beneath it the walls were sturdy enough to stand against the windy June day outside. He turned his key in the lock and heard it click. Around him, homeless beggars and very unpleasant-looking men huddled in little crevices of buildings. A quick exchange of coins happened on the corner of two streets. He wished fervently that he had been able to find a better place to live for Rose, but that had been impossible. For a month and a half they had taken refuge in the Red Cross Humanity Society with at least a hundred other steerage survivors because there had been no other place for them to go. He knew Rose was willing to go anywhere he took her, and that scared him to death, for the terror that he'd take her to the wrong place.

Trying to push the struggling thoughts from his head to leave room for his love, he slipped in the door and locked it behind him. There was silence in the two rooms that they owned. One was a bedroom; the other was a small kitchen furnished with a cheap oven and table combined with a small space where a ratty sofa and armchair sat, gathering dust. Not really counting as a third room was the bathroom, right beside the door into the bedroom. It smelt moldy and as much as Rose had tried to clean away the odor, she could not.

"Rose?" He called throughout the house, loving the sound of her name on his tongue, just as he always had, the name of his flower. He dropped the bag of groceries he had been carrying by the front door and kicked off his scuffed boots, knowing full well that Rose would make him pick them up later.

Sometimes he felt so disappointed in himself that this was the best he could give the one who gave his life meaning. It wasn't as if he didn't remember how her days had been before. He could still see the elegant gowns she had worn, so expensive that one could have paid off all of his parents' land and the little house. And those damn jewels – some of them he had never even _heard of_, let alone _seen. _But Rose had insisted on staying with him, saying that if she could survive the Atlantic she'd do fine on the streets. Jack wasn't too sure. She was so amazingly gorgeous – he knew that almost any one of those men that were standing outside of their apartment would rape her without a second thought. That's why he thought it so important to protect her.

If only he could find her. After his long day of work, his arms burned with the need to hold her as soon as humanly possible. He strode into their bedroom and saw what he suspected. She was fast asleep on their bed, a cloth hanging limply in her hand, as if she had fallen asleep while cleaning. He guessed she had. She was quite devoted to mastering domestic skills.

He couldn't make himself wake her up. She was unbelievably beautiful anytime, and she sleeping made her seem even more angelic. She was wearing a pale green dress that they had received at the Red Cross. It was a flattering cut given away by some rich person because, apparently, gowns without lace or beads were not "popular" and it was life or death for the wealthy to stay in style. But it was perfect for Rose. It was thin for the summer, short-sleeved, like a sundress, he decided.

And her hair . . . that was the distinguishing feature about her. She had wonderful hair, scarlet colored, like flames from an unbearably hot fire, almost as deep as blood, and in wild, lovely curls. It was lightly scented with rose water and he loved to run his fingers through every strand.

Her skin was like alabaster, glowing a healthy light color like cream. It was so soft to the touch. She had only showed that skin to him, throughout her entire life.

But the part of her he figured he knew most was her lips. They were ripe and apple-red. He had loved on them more times then he thought possible and he lived for her kisses.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, then lowered himself on their small, squeaky, comfortable bed, their favorite piece of furniture. His weight on the mattress made her stir, her rosebud lips parting slightly. She stretched and, ever so slowly, her eyes opened. He loved her eyes, the color of magnolia leaves and the sky mixed together. He could look through them into the hidden depths of her soul without so much as trying.

"Jack . . ." She murmured deliciously, letting the word roll over her tongue like sugar. Blindly she reached up for him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He sat up straighter, grinning, and pulled her up with him. She yawned innocently and rested her head on his chest. He smoothed her curls and pulled her closer to him so she simply let her body go limp and him support her. "Mmm . . . how long have you been home? You should have woken me."

His grin widened and he answered, "Aw, Rose, you know I can't wake ya up when you're sleepin'. You deserve it."

She arched a fine eyebrow at him and murmured in response, "Yes, sleep doesn't visit us much at night, does it?"

He chuckled and blushed, knowing what she meant, and tried to untangle himself from his love so he could stand, but she wouldn't let him.

"I have something to tell you," she protested firmly, looking up to meet his gaze.

He saw something new flicker in her eyes, something he hadn't seen since a terrible April night with air evaporating to leave screams in its place. Fear. It shone like a candle in her irises, in her soul. He gulped, knowing full well what was coming. He was stupid to think that their relationship would have worked out in the first place without marriage. He had wanted to marry her, but he was too terrified to ask, too terrified of rejection. And now she was done waiting.

Rose's heart pounded inside of her chest. She had learned within the last few months that the old wife's tale was true, that when you were nervous you could actually feel your heart beat. Of course, she had been more than "nervous" before. But she couldn't help but let herself think that Jack didn't want her news. In the back of her mind she was forced to imagine what Cal's reaction would have been if they were not married. Would he have murdered her precious cargo or her? Would he have been too terribly ashamed and disgusted to look at her? Of course, their baby would not have been conceived from love, but force. Jack's child had been made from passion and earnestness and eternal devotion. And he was a good man. But still she couldn't stop herself from praying that it was already over.

"I . . . I . . ." She was finding it hard to look at him, but Jack put his thumb under her chin and forced her face up to meet his eyes, eyes that were looking at her with a little bit of apprehension and worry, but still brimming thick with blue love, blue as the waves of day that had threatened to tear them apart. So, like always, she ended up spilling everything out, because she trusted him beyond imagination. "We . . . well . . . Jack . . . We made a baby."

She could tell that this was the last thing he had expected. His jaw dropped and his stare became unfocused. He dropped his hold around her waist. For a moment all he did was stare. His thumb under her chin lost its force and she bit her lip as she waited for his reaction, terrified.

There was another time that such uneasy silence had hung in the air. And she had been the one to break it. In the back of her head, smoky memories stirred . . . the gymnasium, his touch so tender and his mood so determined. But she had shunned him.

Would he do it to her?

She could see transparent tears collecting at the corners of his eyelashes, and she didn't know what to think. So she tried not to wonder, but she couldn't help it. She trembled in his released grip, thinking that he must have decided to abhor her, because she was not yet his wife.

All of the sudden he focused on her again, and his powerful hands wrapped around her arms. She almost went limp from being so close to him in such a moment of agony, and she prepared herself for the waterfall of the worst.

Tremulously he asked, his voice full of wonder, "So . . . I'm gonna be a daddy?" He turned to her now, and she still could not tell if it was a good or bad reaction she saw within him. She nodded slowly, wondering if he even wanted a child.

Suddenly his rigid self control shattered and he picked her up, whirling her in circles, shouting and whooping incoherent phrases of absolute joy. She giggled, the sound like a silver ribbon from her mouth. Because finally, Jack Dawson had a chance to be a father like his own. That was all he had ever wanted. He dropped her on the bed and kissed her, kissed her with such ardor that he pushed her down into the blankets, his body on top of hers. His lips melted with her round red ones, tasting the fruitiness and feeling the softness. She pulled him back with her, grasping his shirt.

As always, such a passionate kiss was doomed from the beginning. As they made love, the only thing she heard was him whispering, "Thank you, thank you, I love you," in her ear again and again.

Dawn shone through the dirt-streaked glass pane above their bed as Jack stretched lazily. Rose's head lay on his bare chest, curls cascading like blood from his skin.

A father. It seemed impossible because merely three months ago he had been sleeping in street corners and under bridges. He hadn't even met his soulmate. And then came the silence of love and the murder of joy that lasted far, far too long. But he felt like he was ready.

Damn it all to hell! Who was he kidding? He didn't feel like he was ready at all. He was absolutely _terrified_ – there was no other word for it. He knew he would never be as good of a parent as his own dad had been, but he _had_ to try. He just had to. Rose was carrying his child, and that was the most precious gift he had ever been given, short of Rose's soul.

He looked down and his eyes sought his love's abdomen, and he felt the tears coming. As much as he tried to stop them, he was soon silently crying because he realized that beneath that skin was the beautiful creation that had been shaped from love: pure, absolute love. So of course the baby would be perfect.

He knew now exactly what he needed to do. He needed to be Rose's husband, and not because of the infant. It was a burning desire that fate and destiny had given to him, a passion so deep that it would never be quenched until done. Nothing else could satisfy him or her so fully.

He almost laughed at the ironicness of it all. Short of two months ago, he never dreamed he would be considering marriage so soon. He had been a wild, spirited, free artist, with ties to nothing and love to no one. With Fabri at his side and paper under his arms and air in his lungs, he never even thought there was anything more to a perfect life.

Now he realized that he was as close to perfection as God would allow. He didn't even put his staying in one place under the category of "settling" for this life was as unpredictable and beautiful as any other he had ever lived.

Anxiety almost drowned him at the mere thought of proposing. He squeezed his smoldering eyes shut and tried to imagine how he would do it, but he hadn't the slightest idea if he even could. Any self-confidence he had ever had was gone, leaving bare nakedness in its place. The moment he looked at her, his heart beat so hard he feared he was having cardiac arrest. The fact that she might soon be asked to be Mrs. Dawson made him nearly die.

Mrs. Rose Dawson.

Mrs. Rose Hockley.

Ms. Rose DeWitt-Bukater

Mrs. Rose Dawson . . .

He let the name roll over his tongue silently again and again. The only thing he could think of was when he had almost lost her, when the Atlantic had almost frozen a Rose. When he had thought his life was not worth living. And that had been too much pain to bear.

He wouldn't survive if he lost her again.

He happened to glance at the cracked clock on their nightstand and cursed loudly. It read eight o'clock in the morning and he was supposed to be at work at seven-thirty! His boss would never, not ever, accept any sort of romantic excuse. If he overworked himself ever damned hour, he hardly had enough to make ends meet. It was widely known that the locomotive factory he worked in paid good money for a factory, and that was still so little that you could count a month's pay on one hand.

Tears stung his eyes. This was not where he had wanted to be. Art was his passion, and with his job, there was hardly any time for the love of his life. But art had not opened a door for him, not even a crack, and he had to get the green now. Rose was convinced that his day in the land of the famous workers on paper would come, but he had a hard time believing it. He hardly had time to draw anymore, and when he did, he had trouble putting his soul in it like he used to.

He tried to unwrap himself from Rose and succeeded, pulling away as the bed squeaked in protest. He stood there for a moment, looking at her tenderly, unwilling to withdraw from the beautiful scene in front of him. She stirred in discomfort from his arms having left her, and he pulled the blanket up higher over her body. Something inside of him hurt so bad that he couldn't bear it anymore, and he softly kissed her forehead before getting dressed and racing out the door.

He locked the door behind him, and, as it did everyday, the sense of worry about leaving Rose home alone flooded through his heart. Instead of putting the keys under the mat, as usual, he shoved them in his pockets, trying to reassure himself that she was a strong woman. It didn't help any, because he knew the men on their street were stronger.

Shaking his head with fear for his love and their unborn child, he raced off down the road, running, his boots thudding into the hard sidewalks. Dust was kicked up as he sped. The scent of cinnamon rolls from a bakery and spaghetti from an Italian restaurant wafted through the damp, humid air and awoke his senses. His stomach rumbled from the physical exertion of the night and hunger. Of course, he wouldn't be eating till he got home, and last night he hadn't even had the chance to eat dinner. Not that he minded. He had enjoyed the other option much, much more.

With that thought, he already began to wish the day was over and he could hold Rose again. He was petrified that this life wasn't for her, but he wanted to make it hers. So he anxiously planned a quick stop at the jewelry store before continuing to their apartment.

Morning passerby cried out in shock as he shoved by them, mumbling apologies every few people. The factory, and another day of heat and pain, was in sight.

Rose's jade and sapphire eyes fluttered open as she awoke, feeling wonderfully renewed and refreshed. Lemon shafts of sunlight bathed her in their warmth and she shifted closer to the man next to her, completely content.

But he was not there.

She sat up, clutching the sheet around her chest, and sighing in frustration. Sometimes it seemed as if the man of her life was simply a stranger who slept in her bed. She knew he was working hard for her, but she couldn't help but wish that he could do what he loved – draw.

Unconsciously her hand fell to her stomach. Startled, she remembered that a product of love and destiny was growing inside of her. She was carrying Jack's child.

She was carrying Jack's child.

Those words would never loose their magic for her. It seemed as though her Savior had left a gift from heaven in her abdomen. She fell back against the pillows, ecstatically happy because Jack had done what she felt no other man could ever do – he had trusted her. She had never seen him more alive, never seen joy radiating from him like that. She could think of not one other better candidate for a father on the face of the planet.

The doctor had said that the baby had been conceived at least a month ago, and she knew exactly when it had happened. The idea that an infant had been forming in her while she was in those waters of cold blood and death seemed impossible.

Wistfully, she remembered the smoky look of unmatched adoration and devotion clouding his eyes in their never-changing orbs of soul-reading blue, so beautiful and wonderful that she could stare at him until kingdom come. She had never expected him to accept the parental task before him with such anticipation and need. But he had.

Already her body needed him to hold her, but she sighed and reminded herself that no, he had work to do, and so did she. Such was their life.

With unabashed dread, she kicked her way out of her cocoon of blankets and sheets. The warm fabric fell off her skin as she moved into the cool world. Her bare white frame immediately began to shiver and she hurried to the wardrobe in the corner, wishing that Jack was there every morning when she woke, not just Sundays. She quickly yanked a worn, frayed, dark blue sundress from the hidden depths and dressed in it over her underclothes, shaking her red and light-red streaked curls back and tying them up in an elegant knot. Every article of clothing she owned was donated from the shelter, but she didn't care. It was such freedom not to care.

She wasn't hungry and usually didn't eat unless Jack was home. So instead she began to clean the house, yet again, humming the melody that was branded in her memory like hot coals.

_"Come Josephine, my flying machine, going up she goes, up she goes . . ."_

It was when she bent over to pick up the broom from the corner of the tiny kitchen that the first wave hit her. She doubled in half, her stomach churning, and threw her hand against the wall to keep from sliding to the floor. She wanted to scream, but couldn't. It was like her insides were twisting and writhing inside of her . . .

Even though she hadn't eaten a thing, vomit gushed from her mouth and splattered to the floor. Her head pounded thickly like engines, and she somehow managed to crawl into the bathroom before she got sick again, this time in the toilet.

She pressed her forehead against the cool surface of the sink and sighed noisily. This was her first morning sickness, the one before many, and she hated it. The terrible taste in her mouth lingered even after she washed out her mouth and brushed her teeth, and the nauseousness would not leave. Inside, she knew it was worth it, but she found herself praying with all her being that the father of this baby could be here with her.

For several hours she sat on the icy tile, not able to move, and even if she could, she wouldn't have. She was lost in complete memories of the man she loved.

After work, Jack jumped when the bell on the jewelry shop's door rang. He was nervous enough already. He could feel the fire color of his cheeks and he knew the world could see it too. He felt as though he were on a mission that could never be completed. For a moment he stood in the doorway and gathered himself. _Don't blow it, Dawson,_ he told himself. _She's the one and you know it. You know it!_

The man behind the register looked at Jack over his spectacles, eyebrows raised in bemusement. Jack shot him a look of annoyance but his heart was pounding too hard to speak. So the teller spoke for him. "Now either you're running from a gang with knives or you're here to buy a wedding ring." He smiled.

"Well . . . uh . . . the last one sounds better," Jack murmured the red flowing from his cheeks and back into his blood vessels. Shakily, a million thoughts running into his head, he made his way to the ring counter. At first his mind didn't even process the scene of rows upon rows of sparkling gemstones and gold until he saw something that he knew he was meant to look at every day.

The band was silver and it shone with a natural brilliance that reminded him of Rose's eyes. A fairly small diamond was attached to its outer edge and had even more miniscule precious stones around it, two on each side. For several moments he simply stared, jaw open.

Wow.

It seemed too perfect and beautiful for him to even pick up. He couldn't speak. His insides quivered and his mind flashed back day after day, turning the pages of time in reverse, faster and faster, the flood of tears pricking at his eyes . . . Ice . . . death . . . blood . . . His Rose.

Because, you see, love was something that Jack Dawson had and was and would forever experienced to its fullest. Love was that feeling of total commit and the need and desire to make a sacrifice for something greater than your own black soul. And he had felt it.

Somehow he knew the warmth was going to seep back through the cold, and that would only happen if he were together with the empress of his life for eternity. He just stared, letting the water in the corner of his eyes dry. God damn it, he loved that woman.

The man somehow seemed to read exactly what he was thinking and, with a flourish, held the open box out to Jack. His tender fingers of an Artist stroked the cool metal and he whispered, "It's almost as magnificent as her."

The teller shook his wiry-grey-haired head with amusement at young love and went to ring it up. Off-handedly, not looking at Jack's lax expression, he asked, "You want me to engrave it? At no extra charge?"

Smoky-blue eyes closed against the hurt of memories as "their" phrases ran through Jack's head. You jump I jump . . . Come Josephine . . . You wouldn't have jumped . . . to the stars . . .

Never let go.

It meant so much to him, those three words. They said everything, the pain of moving ahead and the sure death of staying behind, the beginning of an old life and cherishing the new, and passion that would bloom forever and never, not ever, die. Bullets could not kill it. Social walls could not kill it. The mighty Atlantic sea could not kill it. But most of all, death could not kill it. Death could not win. Somewhere in the back of his head, a Bible verse from his childhood floated . . .

_Death, O where is your shadow?_

That was exactly the sort of devotion and everlasting affection that had doomed the two lovers to their miraculous and manifest destiny.

He cleared his throat and looked again at the shopkeeper, finding it hard to speak at the moment. "Uh . . . yeah," he answered, coughing and shedding his voice of it silent huskiness. "Yeah, could you . . . could ya engrave three words for me?"

The clerk nodded and opened the door to go in the back room. "'I love you?'" He asked, as if confirming what he already knew. "We put that all the time son. Usual, maybe, but still so –"

"No, no, no," Jack interrupted. "No, she knows that. I just don't ever want her to forget something I told her once, such a very long time ago . . ."

The man paused and leaned against the doorframe, looking interested in his story, but Jack could not tell it. He was still too raw, the scar too fresh, the cut too deep. "Never let go."

Puzzled, the clerk looked up. "What?"

"Could you write . . . 'Never let go'?"

"Uh . . . sure thing." He turned and went in back, mumbling something about crazy lovers of today.

Rose was sitting in the ratty armchair in the living room / kitchen, waiting to hear the sound of those big, thick boots thudding up the broken sidewalk to her front door. She loved that sound and the routine that followed – the enveloping of her body by strong arms, the kiss full of such ardor it almost doomed them before they said a word.

The smell of baking chicken wafted through the air from the ancient oven. She had managed to go through Jack's groceries that morning and had just started cooking dinner. She hadn't yet completely mastered the task of cook, but she felt like she was improving. Her first few meals had turned out so burnt and charred that she had wanted to cry at his sweetness when Jack asked for seconds to keep her from bursting into tears. He acted like he enjoyed it, and now he actually seemed to _want _to eat her food. It wasn't half as bad as it had been anyway. She had adapted quite well to supporting her own physical needs, as opposed to having other people do it for her, and it made her feel healthier than she had in her entire life, with the exception of morning sickness.

She treasured their dinners – the entire time Jack simply stared at her as he tried and sometimes failed to get food in his mouth. A woman had never felt as cherished as she did. He made her feel as if she were the only girl he had ever looked at, ever been with, had ever existed.

That made her day worth it.

In the lonely silence that had not yet been broken inside her apartment, the only company Rose had was her thoughts. They would whirl and swirl, faster and faster until she felt dizzy. Right now, in the back of her mind, the word "marriage" seemed fuzzy and distant but there. She tried to chase it away, tried to say her life was perfect the way it was and there was no need to get married. God damn it, she even tried to convince herself that Jack didn't want to have a wife and be tied down to a place. But he was overjoyed on the prospect of a child, so why should he shun a spouse?

Still, she realized she couldn't simply ponder on it, and when the time came, it came, and there was nothing else she could do. She wasn't expecting it to come for a long, long time because they each had so many other things on their minds – for the most part, healing after the disaster that had occurred and ripped their lives to shreds like the steel of a Titan.

She was only seventeen. Sometimes, it was impossible to believe that she was still only seventeen. Still, as older adults had recently nicknamed her, a "teenager" – not even a woman in the eyes of some, but a . . . a child! It was absurd to even hold that thought about her because, when one had been through all she had, they could never, not ever, be considered a child again. She felt her maturing had happened a long time ago, when her father had been gambling and giving out all of their money and then suddenly died, leaving empty hearts and bank accounts and piles upon piles of bills and debts.

Still like a young girl, she had loved him, but at the same time had grown to hate him like a woman, grown to hate him for leaving her with a future that wasn't hers and a weight she could not bear. It was in this she had learned her first lesson. Any human had a right for equality. Not all got it.

She had nursed this hate for so long, that eventually it began to cover up her ability to love, like vines choking the life from a lovely tree. And by the time that she had become engaged to the infamous Caledon Hockley, the monster in her mind, she was an endless ocean of despair and a cold-hearted person left out in the night. And still, she had only been seventeen.

Just when it seemed all divine creatures had written her off as a hopeless cause of malicious pain, she boarded the _Titanic_. But something amazingly beautiful had come out of her tragic time spent on Earth. She had met Jack Dawson.

Looking back, she realized that she hadn't even known she loved him the moment she saw him, but she had. There had been something inside of him the foretold of a timeless love between soulmate and soulmate, between a man and a woman. So, unwillingly and unknowingly, she had become the woman she needed to be to fulfill her destiny in his arms.

He had saved her.

And for that she owed him her entire life, and was more than willing to give it to him. He had already taken it anyway, he took it before she knew she loved him, took it without her permission or consent, but had taken it nonetheless.

The sound of muffled, heavy footsteps seeped in through around the door and Rose's heart flew. She was out of the chair before she realized it. A key grated in the lock and she whisked to the front door, getting there mere milliseconds after it opened.

There he stood, the love of her life, his cheeks even pinker than usual, his hair shining even blonder from the sun, his skin tanner from walking through the hot day again, his clothes dirtier from a day of work. She couldn't adore him more than she did at that moment. His arms instinctively opened and his hands groped for her, and she threw herself at him, her hands clutching the dusty shirt at his chest.

His grin broke like it always did, and she could tell it was the first true grin he had given all day, and it was saved especially for her. She stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips against his, not able to wait any longer, her arms climbing his body to wind around his neck. He moved her back as their mouths connected, slowly stumbling forward so he could close and lock the door. That task done, he concentrated more on his true job and his hands found their way to her hair, twisting and feeling and smoothing the fiery red curls that always awaited him.

Jack's heart pounded hard against his ribs and Rose's own chest that he was pressed so close to. He felt as though she knew he was nervous. It was as if the ring box in his pocket was glowing red and signaling beams to her, even though she couldn't possibly have known it was there. Her rosebud lips moved away from his for a split second to allow air to fill her lungs before he cut her off again, tasting the sweet honey depths of her mouth meant only for him, that had only been given to him.

He felt her giving way inside, and he held her up as she relaxed in his grip, one arm supporting her weight and one hand on the small of her back. His eyes, pools of mystery that they were, searched her own with concern drifting in their azure waters. "How did everything go today?" He asked softly, bending his head to say the sentence into her skin, heating the flesh beneath his words.

She sighed and her eyelids fluttered shut. "Alright, I suppose. I got morning sickness for the first time."

He looked up with pain in every line of his face, and she knew that he had really wanted to be there with her. Concern reflected in his eyes and they flickered to her stomach, resting there, seeing something only he could see, a soul forming. All of the sudden it seemed something within him cracked and he crushed her against him, breathing in the scent of her, tasting the air around her, needing her, and hating himself for not being there enough.

For a moment she simply stayed there, her cheek pressed against his chest, her fingertips idly walking across his shoulders. But soon the smell of burning food reached her nose and, with a moan, she wrenched herself from his arms and made her way to the oven.

He stared after her, watching every move she made, amazed that anyone had the right or even capability to look so magnificent any time, place, or circumstance. He kicked off his boots and was about to follow when the weight of the box in his pocket was suddenly painfully obvious again. He was so nervous he could hardly make himself reply to her "Are you hungry?" with a slight nod. Seventeen . . . sometimes she seemed absolutely ageless to him because he knew few other women whom had gone through as much as she had.

His hand reached unconsciously in his pocket and opened and closed the velvet case with a barely audible snap. This was what love was, the anxiety that nearly killed him. He felt nearer to his death than he remembered being in the damned Atlantic Ocean, in the middle of the crisis of his life.

Rose was sliding plates of chicken, potatoes, and bread when he finally got in touch with reality again. He was still by the door, still licking his lips that were bruised from their desperate kiss. As she wiped her hands on a rag, she watched him curiously as he simply stared at her. He hardly felt his socked feet moving over to her and his calloused finger gently brushing a curl from her eye. Still, after a month and a half, she glowed shyly whenever he was so tender with her. Her eyes flickered to the floor and a soft smile replaced her puzzled expression as he pulled a chair out for her and let her sit down.

Suddenly ravenous, he did the same and began tearing into his food, trying to get something, anything, to take his burning mind and slamming heart off the question he knew he was going to ask regardless of life or death. It helped some to have his mouth full and chewing but not enough, so he decided to add speech to his multi-tasking. "It's wonderful, my dear," he muttered in-between gulps as Rose daintily cut pieces of chicken and lowered her lips to her utensils. She shone with amusement as he kept his eyes on his plate and he knew that she knew that something else was on his brain.

There was nothing else to discuss, so the rest of their supper was eaten in silence, Rose soaking up the satisfaction of just being with him, Jack turning over a proposal again and again in every part of his body. When he was finished, he cleared his and her place and scrubbed every dish in sight, clean or dirty, as she shook her head at him.

"I have a surprise for you," he murmured finally, once he saw that there were no more dishes to wash. He thought that it might finally be the time to ask, but at the last second he looked into her face, into her soul, and he knew that it wasn't right yet, that she had no idea. Just gazing at that stark display of God's craftsmanship and humanity at its finest made him weak inside, so instead he turned to something other than he had planned.

"What?" She asked, playfully suspicious. He reached in his pocket and took out another key, a key that the apartment leaser, Mr. Tom Benova, had lent him once he told him of his desire for something for his wife to do other than clean an uncleanable living space.

"Tom gave me this and it'll open that little storage space in back," he told her, watching her light up with excitement. Rose knew that his surprises were always wonderful, and she could hardly wait. He was so good to her, and that made her love him all the more.

"What's in it?" She demanded, breathless, watching the teasing in his eyes, the teasing that meant that he had something he knew she would adore. And he knew her so, so well.

"Well, Miss Rose, you can go figure it out for yourself," he answered, mild mocking in his voice as he held the key just within her reach. She snatched it from him and her feet nearly flew across the carpet to the worn door that before they had been denied entrance to. He loved it when she got excited like this, more like a little kid than a grown woman. It unleashed a side of her, a fun side, that she previously had not been allowed to recognize.

He leaned against the hallway wall, a little ways behind her, hands in his pockets again, relishing the moment when she would see his gift that Tom had loaned them. She thrust the key in the lock and bit her ruby lips with concentration as she turned it and heard the rewarding click. For a moment she looked uncertainly back at him, and he nodded.

Rose turned the tarnished handle and slowly pulled back the door. It was too dark to see, so, blood pumping wildly, she flipped a switch that connected to a bare electric light and the artificial glow flooded the room, a room that was like all the other rooms, carpeted with a rough and torn carpet, the walls once white but now peeling and stained a yellowish color.

She gasped.

For there, the only thing other than small windows in the tiny space, was a piano.

Tears stung her eyes as memories from her childhood were dusted and she could again see her father's thick fingers flying gracefully over the keys as he taught his musical magic to her, taught her every note and every song he knew. She could see herself bouncing on his lap, starched dress loose and once-proper curls flying across her face as his entire body beat the rhythm that was completed by the piano. She could even hear his voice, a deep, rich bass, overcoming her own tiny singsong one, "I am thine and thou art mine for ten thousand years beside . . ." If she imagined hard enough, she was back in that room again, warm oak paneling half way up the parlor walls, the floor soft and thick sapphire-colored carpet, the plush drapes pulled back from the gigantic, majestic windows to allow the sun to grace them with its presence, comfortable, wide chairs positioned strategically along with potted plants for guests, and the two double glass doors swung open so the whole foyer could hear their joyous melody. And there was Jonathan DeWitt-Bukater, in person, his neatly slicked back dark hair and salt-and-pepper beard covering his strong, square face, his muscled arms moving as he tapped out a song for the little girl on his lap, a pretty little girl with lovely hair and wild eyes. Then there was her mother, and she was . . . happy, happy as she had been before her husband's death and their financial doom. She looked so beautiful with her face free from these worries as she stood with her hands on Jonathan's shoulders and smiled as she listened.

But then Time moved on and the scene dissipated, making the people more smoky, like phantoms of her past. The room fell away, leaving this one with its smell of mold and dampness overpowering the clean, fruity smell of her childhood home. The music inside her head began to die, seeming ghostly as it disappeared.

But the piano was still there.

It was a different piano. Not the grand one that she had once owned. It had a box behind the keys holding all the music-making components, and altogether looked less than two feet wide. It was wooden and it was stained with use. It was old. The keys looked more beige than ivory. But it was still a piano.

Still in a trance, she glided over to this instrument, her hands ever so lightly grazing the cracked top. The key fell forgotten to the floor. Jack faded away. She sat herself at the bench, carefully arranging her skirts as if it were another thousand-pound gown that she was wearing.

Her alabaster, slender fingers reached for the smooth keys and rested there, for a moment, as she rested in the comfort of yesterdays ago. Then she began to play.

It was a haunting song; she didn't remember the lyrics, only the tune, a tune that her father had told her. Faintly, words began reforming, words she was sure Jonathan had just made up.

_As surely as the many birds do sing,_

_As surely as the butterfly takes wing, _

_As surely as the stars twinkle in the night,_

_As surely as the moon shines so bright,_

_I will surely forever love you_

_As surely as the morning dew_

_I will surely forever love you_

_Surely . . ._

She played it slower than he had, and she didn't sing out loud as he had. She hardly remembered how the notes went; it was as if some invisible force was guiding her fingertips.

When the song ended, she collapsed, pressing her forehead against the cold wood beneath the music keys, crying uncontrollably, knowing she had lost that family for good.

Jack stood where he had for the past five minutes, and when the tears started coming down Rose's face, he didn't know what to do. Half of him wanted to take her in his arms and rock her and hold her and make whatever was hurting her go away, but the other half of him felt helpless because he was not this part of her past, and he knew that it was that past that was with her at the moment. So he stayed there, silently crying with her, because it pained him to see her weep like that.

Suddenly she stood up, those tears still streaming down her face but not affecting her complexion of warm, pinkish snow, and ran to him. He barely had time to open his arms before she threw herself at him, the same tears making imprints of water on his shirt. He murmured incoherent words of comfort into her ear until he finally made out her own words through her sobs, "I love you, I love you, I love you . . ."

He reached a thumb under her chin and tilted it up to meet his gaze and he argued, "I love you more."

She laughed, that contrasting sharply with her weeping, and shook her head at him, saying without actually saying that no, he didn't, and no, he couldn't, but he disagreed.

A burning desire was refilling her need for her family, and it was the need of him, not just to feel him, but to be him, to be one with him and for him to love her like no other man could possibly ever do.

She looked up into his face and whispered that secret, forbidden whisper of a destiny that so outdid anything she could ever hope for herself. "Put your hands on me, Jack."

He looked surprised for a moment, as if this was the last thing he had expected, but she kissed him without warning and deeply, and that was all he needed to give in. He didn't even need that.

It was two o'clock in the morning, but neither of them could sleep. Rose was still remembering each passion filled moment of reaching higher heights than ever before, Jack was basking in these and using them to build a platform for the question he had to ask. She was lying with her head on his chest and he was idly playing with her curls, weaving his hand in and out, while the other hand clutched her closer to him, as though he thought that she might fly away like a fragile butterfly carried by a stronger wind.

"Rose . . ." he muttered, breaking the quiet darkness of the moment, waiting for her to acknowledge him before he went on.

She moved to look up at his face. "Hmmm?"

"Do . . . do you . . . do you love me?"

Fear flashed in her eyes like lighting racing across a Texas prairie in summer, devouring everything in its path. Didn't he know? Couldn't he see? She would die for him, defeat the very core of Hell for him, cross the world for him, freeze in an icy sea for him, drown for him, but most of all, live for him. Her expression turned to absolute confusion. "Jack . . . Jack . . . of course I do . . . I'll love you eternally . . ."

She felt some of the tension ease in his tight muscles around her and she breathed a sigh of relief at the fact that he was relieved. "Well . . . uhhh . . ."

She looked at him imploringly, telling him to go on. Confused, she watched as he reached beside the bed and pulled something out of his pants pocket. It was a box.

She knew. Just looking at the terror in his blue, blue smoldering eyes told her. She froze, not knowing what to do, not expecting it in the least, everything he had ever said to her racing through her mind like a wildfire, feeling every emotion she had ever felt with him, the height of ecstasy to the pit of horror and desperation and the sure knowing she was going to die where she had been born on the _Titanic_, the Queen of the ocean that was murdered by a mutiny.

He flipped open the lid with trembling fingers and her eyes roved the ring inside, not believing it, hardly even seeing the beautiful, pure silver or the variety of diamonds sparkling and dancing in the shining moonlight. The moment of truth for her lifetime was in front of her.

"Rose . . ." He had planned a speech, but now a speech was out of the question, his heart was pumping so fast that it would kill him if he tried to remember it, so he spoke exactly from that heart, meaning every word that passed his lips. "I love you . . . I love you so much that I'd die without you, I would have died without you, I can barely live with you not being mine, because you're not mine, not really, not yet, and I would go back into the gates of that freezing Hell for you again and again and again, and I can't ever put that behind me unless I know that we are forever, and I want a family and I want a life and I want . . . I need you and . . . Oh God, Rose . . . Trust me."

Tears trembled at her eyelashes like crystals but he didn't wipe them away, just stared at her, strings of love binding them together. She knew the answer, she had known it since forever. The story of blood and of sacrifice and of ice had never had as much of a meaning as it did right then.

He held the ring out to her, and in the moonlight she read the inscription – "Never Let Go."

So many things hit her when she heard those three words. Life. Death. Victory. Defeat. Struggle. She could almost feel that strong, angelic hand of an Artist pressed against hers, almost feel the contours of his fingers frozen to her own. Such fierce determination in his blue eyes that were frosty like his blood. The absence of Time and yet the bitter impression of it. Fear dying because she didn't have the strength for it anymore. Passion fading. Love hardening. Eternal devotion blooming.

Souls that had died and souls that had lived but were passing in front of her eyes from something no one could stop were speaking to her, their words entwining like a vine into one, "Soulmate." Their screams became bold in her mind, and her own scream mixed in with theirs.

She had never really been warm in the first place. Jack was her only source of warmth. And she loved him so much. Too much to not be his wife.

Her life raced before her and she realized, finally, that she had been dying for a long, long time. This was her chance to live, his chance to live, their chance for life.

A barely noticeable whisper. "I trust you."

These words had the same effect on Jack that they had times before, during the apex of a sunset, getting painted anew by the colors of a melted sky, of orange and bronze and yellow, and the climax of the death of a Titan as an immortal goddess had become mortal and met destinies of all destinies and horror of all horrors from the collision of greed and thoughtless acts by thoughtless humans. The total surrender inside of her matched his own as God melted them into one soul.

He slipped the ring on her lovely, unblemished finger. The fit was perfect. She held her hand up in front of her eyes, staring at it, unbelieving, because now she was to be Jack's bride. And this showed it to the whole world. She loved it, so, so much, she treasured the diamond so, so much more than the last one she had had on her hand, the rock that had been pulling her down, drowning her, and now this was the wind beneath her wings, making her fly. She was free.

He watched her reaction, and breathed a sigh of happiness that matched her own. The angels smiled above because their fate had finally been sealed. Time ceased to exist and for just one last moment, the world belonged to them, only and always them.

She flung her arms around his neck, burying her face in his skin, tears soaking into him, until suddenly his lips pressed against hers and the past, present, and future ravaging kiss deepened into such that all of Creation stopped to gaze upon the two lovers whose love had conquered death as the melted into one, just as the rest of their lives just had.

Rose was the first to awake that morning, on Saturday. The moment her eyes fluttered open she was greeted with a gorgeous sight – the diamond ring on her finger against Jack's muscled chest that rippled as it rose and fell with his breathing. She sighed with satisfaction, still not believing. Everything had happened so quickly, so intensely, that it was almost as if nothing had really happened at all. Being engaged and pregnant . . . it was like an answer to an unconscious prayer.

The room was awash with sunlight, even from the tiny window above their bed, and she knew it was late. She had always been an early riser, and had usually awakened before dawn. Those last few months in Society had been so dreadful that she would wake up but stay in bed for hours upon hours, not having the strength to prepare herself for another horrid day. She would puzzle over everything in her life for that warm, comfortable time, safe under the covers, where she could think and nothing could get to her. Mostly she thought of her father and mother. They had each been deplorable parents in their own way – her father for not having responsibility, and her mother for doting it all on Rose's shoulders, including their own futures.

Now, as she lay next to her destiny, she knew that she had been meant to break away from Ruth DeWitt-Bukater, and never, not ever, come back. There were some things that a woman had to leave behind.

As a little girl, she had always thought of her mother as a strong, sensible, content, and relatively cheerful person. But as the years flew by and things that Mrs. DeWitt-Bukater had rested so surely on crumbled to a soaking up ground, Rose began to see that person for whom she truly was – broken, hurt, confused, and lost. And maybe without even knowing it, she – as all daughters must – felt such compassion towards this poor creature that the roles in life reversed, that Rose was the figure on which all burdens and duties rested, and Ruth was the one begging and pleading like a child in a confectionary shop.

And then there was Caledon Hockley.

Rose had always known that Cal wasn't necessarily just a "bad" man, he was insensitive and indifferent and demanding and controlling and possessive, yes, he was definitely all of those, but she believed that somewhere deep inside he just might have cared for her, if just a kernel, but still cared. He had shown it on several occasions, but all the same Rose couldn't stand to be a trophy, couldn't stand to have a master. She wanted a willful, compassionate companion, and Mr. Hockley had surely not been that in the least. There had been times when he had tried, but material possessions seemed to be the only symbol of affection that he knew, not altogether adoration and devotion to a single, living, breathing soul because you loved them.

She had kept the Heart of the Ocean, maybe for no reason at all, maybe for a reason beyond what she could understand, maybe just for the spirits inside a Titan. Whatever the case, there was a panel in the wall that Jack had carved out and put a box filled with the necklace and the money that Cal had left in his overcoat. When the plaster piece was replaced one could never tell riches beyond imagination were being held in the depths of such a crumbling instrument.

They had had the option of using the bound stacks upon stacks of bills for housing when they had first began, or even selling the necklace for royalty. But Jack had firmly refused, and Rose couldn't argue with him. He felt an undying need to provide for her by himself, to show her that he was strong, but she already knew he was, because Jack Dawson was her hero.

She had been so intent in her thoughts that she hadn't realized that the man next to her had awoken. His eyes were like chips of blue, blue ice, boring past her skin, peeling back layers of her heart to look into the very bottom. A grin played on his lips when she started suddenly.

"G'mornin'," he murmured, still groggily. He propped himself up on his elbow and pulled her closer to him with his charcoal-stained hands.

"Good morning," she answered softly, unwilling to disturb the quiet. Over his shoulder, she saw that the clock read one in the afternoon. Blissfully she yawned.

It hit her so suddenly in that moment. There was hardly time to think before it burst into her like water released from an ocean. She would have died if he had not survived. There was absolutely no one else on this entire planet, in the entire universe, that had ever been, was, or was going to be, that could fulfill her like this, love her like this, make her into the heavenly creature that God wanted all of his people to be. And in a split second she realized how sickeningly close she had been to losing him, to not having this future, to losing everything that made her life a life, because the North Atlantic and a mound of ice had cut through them like a knife, and he had been willing and needing to give his life for hers, he had stayed with her, he had stayed in that murdering water, silently screaming but being strong on the outside for her. He would have graciously died so that she might . . . live. Alone, but alive. Never had she met someone like that, and never would she.

His bravery and all of the others that had given their lives to a crime of greed and haste so overshadowed her own that she felt weak and humble and useless in their presence right now, because she could feel the lost with her, and although they were met to comfort, it had to hurt first.

The tears fell down so hard because she knew she had been almost fallen off that great precipice and lost him, lost him like the world loses the beautiful colors of autumn to the freezing death of winter. Except each year the promise of that autumn blooms again, but he would not have.

He stared at her, not at all having expected her tears, but then was ready for them just the same. He wiped away each raindrop until they were coming so fast he couldn't keep up, and then he started crying to, crying because the overwhelming sense of loss had just filled that room so deeply it was gorging into his soul. He had never forgiven himself, never even came to reality about letting his best friend throughout all the world die a lonely and dream-breaking death in a lonely and dream-breaking ocean. He knew that Fabrizio de Rossi had not made it to America, and he wanted to kill himself sometimes for that. Not another soul had deserved America like that Italian, who had wanted it since he was old enough to want. He started from the beginning without asking to, without desiring to. Some unknown force sorted through his brain and pulled out a memory that resurfaced in the very front of his mind.

_Jack Dawson looked into the never-ending skies of Ronice, a tiny, tiny town near the southern tip of Italy. As he stared at the edges of the horizon, he wondered vaguely if the same horizon was visible in Chippewa Falls. He didn't dwell on the thought because he had left, and it was done, and there was no use asking why._

_He was lying on soft strands of emerald-coated grass on a hillside, the sweet smell of cherries and olives making him very, very regretful at soon having to leave this place. It was a small stop he was making between two larger cities to sell his artwork, and he had already stayed longer then he had planned. Oh well. Plans didn't exactly matter anymore, his time schedule wasn't important at the moment anyway. _

_He couldn't help but chuckle at that. His "time schedule?" It made him sound like some soaking-in-money business bastard. He didn't have such a thing. Hell, he just randomly thought up going to the shore of the Mediterranean because he'd always wanted to see that. He didn't really care about money anyway; he managed to sell enough sketches, even in this little village – and if he couldn't afford lodging for a night he slept outside. He preferred the outside, matter of fact, even though he was only sixteen. Nearly seventeen, he reminded himself viciously. He didn't know what the exact date was, but he knew it was almost the end of October, which brought him one month closer to December 17, his birthday. For October, it was considerably warm and balmy out, he had been forced to undo the top two buttons on his shirt._

_All of the sudden his icy blue eyes, gaining blueness as they gained wisdom, landed on a young girl and whom he assumed was her mother playing in the meadow. Obviously the mother had gone to get some water from the well that lay a good four yards away from Jack, but the bucket lay deserted by a rock and she was running with her daughter, picking up her skirts, her bare feet molding to the soft, damp ground, her long black hair falling out of its bun and flying after her._

_The little girl had lighter hair, a sort of almond-colored brown with streaks of a reddish shade falling past her shoulders in absolutely straight tendrils. She was small, so small that she had to weave in and out of the flowers as she giggled in delight and tried to escape her mother, who probably was attempting to wash her. But the chase soon turned into a game._

_Automatically, Jack reached for his sketchbook and let it fall open to a blank sheet of paper. He took a stub of charcoal from his tool belt and went to work. Sometimes he just got impulses like that._

_He loved watching people be like this, wild and free, the way he firmly believed they were made to be. Time wore on and still the running girls never tired. He captured them quickly, every single emotion pouring from them onto the paper, beautiful and real. Then the details came naturally – their cascading hair, their pretty homespun dresses, the waving flowers . . ._

_He was satisfied when he was finished. A gift or not, he didn't know, but drawing was his passion. Quickly he signed it and dated it "October 1908." While he did this, the girl skipped over to him, as if she had been waiting for him to finish._

_He watched her come. His Italian wasn't too good yet, and he doubted that the girl would be able to understand him. But he couldn't help but notice that her warm eyes were so comforting and gentle, that her skin was so light tan, that he lips were the color of dark plum. She looked so sweet that he couldn't help but remember his own home and the people there._

_"Sir, what's that?" Surprisingly, her English was perfect, if somewhat accented. _

_"Lilia!" The mother whispered fiercely, motioning for her daughter to return to her, obviously afraid that she was bothering him._

_"No, no, it's fine," he insisted while opening his sketchbook to the page he had just finished. "Look. I drew this for you."_

_It hadn't entirely been like that. He had just drawn it, hadn't known why. But now he knew exactly why. He loved seeing her face glow when she studied the drawing further and recognized herself and her mother. She clasped her hands together and squealed, jumping up and down like she could barely contain her excitement. _

_"Mama!" She cried out, turning quickly to the cautious woman behind her, her little mouth erupting in a childlike grin. While her back was against him, Jack quickly initialed it and put away the piece of charcoal. "Come look!"_

_Lilia's mother raised her dark, fine eyebrow quizzically and, without any further hesitation, came next to her daughter and examined the picture. Soon she to was smiling. Her finger, calloused from work, stroked her little girl's image gently. "You be doing this, sir?" She asked, her own accent a little bit heavier than the young one's._

_He nodded, and then handed it to her._

_"Oh no, sir, we couldn't possibly – you don't seem to be in the a' understanding, we have no American money . . ."_

_This was the part he loved, giving the sketch to someone. "Well, mam, that's not what I met. I just want you to have it. Ya know, for free."_

_Her brown eyes glittered as she gingerly picked up the paper, whispering "Grazie, grazie, grazie." _

_Suddenly her daughter took it from her and began dancing around, yelling, "I have an immagine! An immagine! It's bello signore!" Her feet flew around a patch of yellow daisies._

_A loud, deep voice from the little hut on the other side of the hill called out, "Lilia! Cherine! Come inside!" _

_Apologetically, the mother bit her lip and took her daughter's hand, hurrying away, but stealing glances back at Jack with every few steps._

_"Dawson," he mumbled when they were gone, "Ya gotta stop doin' that, ya gotta _eat_!" He stood up, groaning from the cramps in his legs, and started to walk down the small slope away from Lilia and Cherine's quaint little home. His stomach rumbled, and his pockets were empty. Maybe he'd ask that old, sweet lady, Madame Dalanio, for a few cherries. Or maybe he'd just go hungry for tonight._

_The fiery orange ball of the sun sank lower beyond the now lavender horizon line until dusk was upon him. He walked on the dirt path into the main part of the village, each grain of soil on fire from the sunset and transforming to a grain of gold. The scent of the air changed from cherries and olives to pigs and grass as he passed a small farm._

_His eyes flew up to the sky, trying to make out the first evening stars to explode in the purple eternity above. For some reason today, he couldn't stop thinking about home. If it was still home, that is. He had left and he wasn't sure if his leaving had been bravery or cowardly fear. He guessed it didn't matter anymore, but still, faces kept floating in his head, faces of his past, of Pa and Ma, of Eliza, of his best friend Peter . . . to that little network of people, he mentally added Lilia and Cherine. The only bad thing was he only seemed to hurt the people he was thinking of. He had left behind Eliza and Peter. And his mother and father . . . hadn't they died at his expense?_

_It had been almost two years, but it still hurt, and the tears stung his eyes like smoke. He tried to force them back but he couldn't, making the endless violet above blur. Angrily he wiped them away. He couldn't remember that day. If he only remembered that day, he'd never move on._

_He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and kept looking at the ground the entire way to the village square, trying brutally to keep thoughts out of his inside mind._

_He heard a faint scream from behind an abandoned building that looked as though it had once been a bakery. He froze, the night closing in on him, the deserted street making his imagination run wild. He became convinced that the scream hadn't been real when he heard it again, louder, and in a form of "Help me!"_

_Before he could even wonder what it was he ran, his recently-found boots not even holding him back. His breathing accelerated, and not from anything physical, but from fear at what he'd find._

_"Shut up, lil' bitch!" The ferocious mutter, definitely from an American, reached him and all of the sudden he went faster, even though it wasn't humanly possible. If he walked in on a murder . . . God, he had to do something._

_He rounded the corner expectantly, picking up a rock at the same time to use as a weapon if necessary. What he saw shocked him so thoroughly that the stone fell from his lifeless fingers._

_A man with light brown hair and waxy white skin was pushing a beautiful girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen, onto the rough ground. She had wavy, midnight-colored hair and her dark oak-colored eyes were round with fear and regret. Her skin was smooth, tan, and, he painfully realized, bruised. The man was pulling up her dress as she kicked and moaned. Obviously he had just punched her in the jaw and she could barely talk. His belt was by him on the floor, and his shirt and pants were unbuttoned._

_All of the sudden Jack realized something. He had just discovered a rape in the moment. When it clicked, all anxiety vanished and was replaced by anger, such terrible fury that he could barely see. He dropped his sketchbook beside him._

_"What in the _hell _do you think you're doin'?" He thundered, his voice booming with indescribable rage._

_The man froze and slowly turned around. His hazel eyes widened when he saw Jack standing there, but even as he buttoned his pants, he didn't move fast enough. Jack didn't see the girl look at him as though he were Messiah. Instead he charged at her assailant and grabbed his collar, yanking back so hard that he gagged and was sprawled backwards on the ground. "You damned son of a bitch!" Jack screamed, spit flying from his mouth, so mad, so, so mad that he thought he might kill this person. What he hated most was someone betraying the trust of another someone, of someone hurting an innocent someone, of someone lying to get something that wasn't theirs, of someone trying to possess a pure body. The man tried to say something, but all that came out was choking sounds. _

_Jack kicked him side with his heavy boot and stepped on his middle at the same time. Then he got down on the ground and started to punch the guy's face, each time feeling more tissue give way, until he upcutted the pervert's lip and made it split open. The guy's lip bled and his eyes turned black and green as he clutched his heaving stomach. "Get up and get out." Jack stood again, towering over the man, his eyes aflame with blue wrath. _

_His victim tried to stand, grasping the wall of the abandoned building, stumbling to maintain balance, and suddenly he ran, more like a limp, but not before shooting a look at the girl so pure of abhorrence that she shuddered and began to cry again. _

_He fell down on his knees on the floor next to her, gentle fingers feeling her arms. "I don't think he broke anything," he murmured softly, suddenly tender after his outburst._

_"Thank you so much, sir, I don't know what he would have done –" She dissolved into sobs again._

_"Aw, no problem. Shh . . .don't cry, let's get you home." He pulled her up with his newly developed muscles and supported her with his arm, letting her hobble beside him. _

_As he picked up his book of drawings, he insisted, "Here, just show me where you live, and I'll make sure you get there." _

_She looked at him gratefully. "I be a' living down the path to the lake." That had been the same path Jack had took earlier. He nodded and helped her to, surprisingly, the exact farm he had noticed a few minutes ago._

_A plump, short woman with an apron on was waiting outside the small clay cottage with smoke billowing out a little chimney and vines of grapes and flowers climbing up the outside walls._

_"Oh, Belina!" She cried and ran to her when she saw her daughter's cuts and bruises. She embraced her and murmured countless things in Italian, not even acknowledging Jack. Tears flowed freely from both women, and then something in a raging tone shot out of her mother's mouth, with Belina urgently saying, "No, no, no!" Jack guessed she was telling her mother that he had not done this horrible thing to her._

_A shadow of a man appeared in the lighted doorway, slightly blacker than the growing night. He stepped out of the front door and moved in a somewhat anticipated way towards Belina. Soon Jack saw that it was a boy about his age, with wavy, dark hair and melted chocolate eyes, dressed in an off-white shirt, reddish suspenders, and pepper-colored pants, topped with a heavy black jacket from some work he had just finished. He bit his lip as he approached, his fingers lacing in and out of each other._

_"Fabrizio? Oh my brother . . ." She threw herself at him, away from her mother who was smoothing her hair, and he held her, shushing her gently and rocking her back and forth. Awkwardly, Jack put his hands in his pockets and wondered if he should leave. He just wanted to make sure the girl was alright._

_When this "Fabrizio" character's sister went inside on her mother's urging to clean up, the boy noticed Jack for the first time. Curiously they looked at each other. The Italian had the rough beginnings of a shaved off beard, while Jack's face was smooth. He had never really had trouble with facial hair – he only had to shave every once and awhile. _

_"Chi? I mean . . . who would you be a' being? Did you save my sister?" _

_He shrugged, still a little shocked from the thickest Italian accent on English words that he had yet heard, and when he received a keen look, hesitantly nodded. "I'm Jack Dawson. I'm from America."_

_This Fabrizio's entire expression changed without warning when he heard the word 'America.' His eyes glowed like little chips of amber and he almost began dancing._

_"I have heard tales of this America. I will go to the Land of Dreams someday. But what brings you here?" He asked, the last sentence with eyebrows raised._

_"Well, I'm your average outcast, a tumbleweed maybe, not goin' here or there, just goin' somewhere . . ." He broke off in thought, almost day-dreamily seeking out constellations above his head._

_"What do you do? For the a' money? For food?"_

_"I draw and sell my drawings."_

_Again Fabrizio became excited. "Drawings? Art? Really? May I see, per favore?"_

_From the little Italian Jack managed to know, he recognized the word please, and produced his sketchbook from behind him. Nervously he shifted his weight from foot to foot as the young man flipped through drawing after drawing after drawing, a genuine grin spreading like butter on his face, hard, thick fingers tracing each bold charcoal line, murmuring things that Jack couldn't understand._

_"They are . . . they are . . . bello . . . absolutely bello . . . I mean . . . beautiful!" _

_Jack let out a sigh of relief and he didn't know why it mattered what he thought anyway, it wasn't Fabrizio's drawings in the first place, but for some reason an instant connection formed and tied them together as friends._

_"Where are you a' going after this little place? Che cosa?" He inquired anxiously._

_"I dunno, I was gonna go to the very tip of southern Italy, maybe France. I've always wanted to go to France."_

_"An adventure?"_

_"My whole life's an adventure, now, Fabri." The nickname came naturally, and the now deemed "Fabri" didn't question it. His eyes glazed over at the thought of an adventure. Jack doubted that he had ever left this little village in this little country._

_"I'm a' coming with you, approvazione?" He seemed so eager, so willing, his entire body language showing that excitement, his feet tapping like a wild horse ready to be unleashed, like another free spirit tapping against its captivity._

_"I dunno what . . . appr . . . approv . . . approvazione means . . . but I'd love for you to come . . . gets lonely sometimes ya know . . ." _

_He became so happy that Jack thought he might have had his entire bag packed already and had been dreaming of this chance for all his life. _

_"Grazie! Grazie, grazie, grazie!"_

_Somewhere beyond those bronze eyes Jack saw something that made him trust Fabri, that made him believe that they were meant to be friends, that made him think about destiny. Perhaps he was the Italian's ticket to that destiny._

_And as he felt the breeze ruffle through his hair, he knew he would never, not ever, be chained down again._

When Jack awoke out of his trance, he noticed that Rose's sobs had quieted and now she was rocking back and forth, her blood-colored curls cascading over his chest, her blue-green eyes trembling with unshed tears, and her luscious lips forming one word, "Jack, Jack, Jack . . ."

He took a deep breath and put Fabrizio in a sanctified part of his mind for a moment and drew Rose in his arms, murmuring to her, "I'm right here, I'm not leaving you again."

She sighed shakily. The pain in her started to ebb away, but she knew it would never fade; it would never fade as long as a wreck was on the floor of the sea, as long as ghosts haunted the decks of a broken majesty. But still she felt she had to ask. "When will this nightmare be over?"

Jack came to sudden realization that he was laced into the worst disaster of all humankind and could not be cut lose, not in his entire life, because once someone was a part of something so horrific they could not escape it. So he really had no true answer for his fiancée except never . . .

Instead of saying it he pulled her closer, trying to shield her against the wisdom he had gained, because wisdom was really agony, and he wanted to spare her from any more pain.

But somewhere in the back of his mind he knew it would get to her someday. There was nothing he could do to stop it forever. And the fact that it might take her from him, that something could take her from him, made her hold her with all the strength he possessed.

Somehow he knew all of it wasn't enough. The ocean would drown him.


	2. Better

**Hey y'all, I'm apologizing beforehand if this particular chapter doesn't seem too interesting, but I wanted to put the "next part" in another chapter. I did my best, so please review it!**

**On another note, I know it's been eons since I last updated. I actually have an explanation – my grandfather passed away late June and life went completely upside down for awhile and I couldn't write. When I could, I had to move, so I didn't have my story until a week or two ago, and I wrote as fast as possible. I hope you love reading it as much as I did writing it!**

Rose's simple but pretty shoes clicked against the sidewalk as she walked home from the grocer's. Grass had pushed up in cracks of the stone and was overturning them, struggling to breathe the air and drink the sunshine. Sometimes that was how she felt, like she was an inch from death and barely surviving. It had been a month since she had become engaged - again. Every once and awhile her fingers toyed with the silver ring, swirling it in circles, but she never took it off because it meant too much.

She sighed with longing as the church bells from St. Peter's Cathedral across the street tolled mercilessly, each clang rocketing straight through her heart. A young couple raced down the ancient church steps, hand in hand, the veil behind the beautiful bride flying like a silken bird, the groom's gaze still unfocused as though he couldn't believe she had made it past the alter, but both looking as though the were in the very depths of love. A parade of guests, from the little children clothed in white to the elderly leaning on canes, grinned and shouted and threw handfuls of rice into the air. It fell like snow on the newly married, but with a promise, it did not melt.

Rose realized how long she had been standing and staring when the two climbed delicately into their decorated carriage and rode out of sight. Her simple white-and-blue flowered dress blew around her smooth legs and a selected few of her red curls were teased out of their loose up-do. She turned away with her basket of bread and eggs hanging limply from her hand as she became lost in daydreams of her wedding. Of course she didn't want a big ceremony, that was something she was intent on escaping. But her girlish notions of romance still lived inside of her and she wanted the same passionate joining of a man and woman in soul that every woman who ever had or ever would live did. She wanted the kiss after the "I do's," to be filled with the trust that only Jack and a Rose could share. And she wanted it soon.

It was more torture being engaged and waiting then not being engaged at all. They had not set a date. They had hardly discussed it. Their relationship, though it was not falling apart, was not growing at the skyrocketing rate it should have been. The pay at the factory had fallen and Jack had been forced to work Saturdays to make the same amount of money, which was the bare minimum they needed to stay in an apartment. She hated to see that happen to him. He was giving up all his hopes and dreams, his art, to put food on the table. His eyes, though still full of deep mystery, no longer sparkled so bright. They had been dimmed and looked weary and tired. They had not made love since their engagement. They hardly kissed anymore. He came home, he ate, he talked, and he went to bed. This was not the life she had wanted to live.

With each step home, she became more and more furious. Something had to work because this was not. She wasn't happy anymore, and he sure as hell wasn't. It was not either of their faults, but rather circumstances that they should both have taken control of. She did not feel capable of bringing her child into a world that its parents had not sorted out yet.

Sometimes she felt it the same way. Sometimes when she looked at him her knees turned to jelly and then he grinned and she could barely breathe. But in so many other ways, it was never the same.

When she got to the apartment, she found the door already unlocked and she realized Jack must have come home. More determined than ever to talk to him, she twisted the knob, opened the door, set down her basket, and secured it behind her.

She turned and saw him looking out a window beside an armchair. He hadn't heard her come in. She saw that look in his eyes and she knew he wasn't watching what was outside, but he was looking on his inside, past what was visible, and into the uncharted depths of his memory.

She usually didn't disturb him at times like this, and, likewise, he didn't disturb her. But this was important. "Jack . . .?" It was more like a pleading, she realized when it came out of her mouth. She was begging, please, please notice me again.

He turned suddenly and he did not smile like he used to when he saw her. The lines of his face were deep with exhaustion. His hair was blonde from sunlight. He seemed so old and young at the same time. She wondered if she looked like that.

She moved towards him and put her hand on his forearm, but he did not respond except a nod. A nod? When had their love been reduced to a nod? She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him, but he turned away. That's when she snapped.

"Jack Dawson, I do not know what is going on here, but I'm sick of it!" She burst into a flood of tears and he looked shocked and the old him came back immediately. His broad thumbs began to frantically wipe away the specks of salty water on her cheeks. But nothing could stop her now. "We just started! We're engaged, Jack! Engaged! So much has happened between us! And now when you come home you hardly look at me! It's like I'm not good enough! Damn it, Jack, that's how I felt with Cal!" His face was horror-stricken, and he opened his mouth to say something, but she cut him off with a tiny whisper. "Is . . . is there someone else?"

Jack looked at her with such hurt and betrayal that she wanted to crumble. That look said everything – and then he said it, and he was crying too, and she was trying to take away his tears, because they could not stand to see the other cry. "God no, Rose! You're my everyone! How could you even think . . . Why don't you trust me anymore?! What do I have to do to earn your trust? I love you, I love you so much, I love you so, so much . . ."

As he watched, he realized she seemed so tiny and alone, so, so alone that it was worse than dying, worse than ever before, because he was right there and she still looked alone. He had let her wilt. He had promised to never, ever let her die inside, and it was going on in front of him and he hadn't done a thing. Inside he screamed at himself, cursed himself with every name he could think of, and it wasn't enough. He wasn't enough.

He pulled her roughly to him, so suddenly and strongly that she gasped, but she was still weeping and she wept into his shirt. Where had they gone wrong? He would never betray her love. But somehow he felt he had lost her trust.

"Why won't you marry me?" She sobbed, and he could barely make out the question. For a moment he thought he had misheard her but then she shrieked it again, needing an answer.

"Rose – I wanna marry you so badly, I thought that you wanted to wait, I thought . . . I'm gettin' tired inside, I want you to be mine, I can't wait anymore. Nothin' is more important to me than you, you are me, you . . . saved me . . ." He got so choked up he couldn't talk anymore and without warning Rose looked at him adoringly.

"I thought you didn't want to go through with the wedding."

He shook his head hopelessly at her, smiling sadly at their misconceptions of each other, and ran his fingers through her hair. He hadn't done it in a month. He had almost forgotten what it felt like. The cool, silky strands parted as he went through them, and he pressed a curl to his nose to catch its scent. "Rose," he whispered, "Can we go back to how it used to be? You know, to our engagement."

Warm relief flooded through her like bath water and she sank against him, thrusting her arms around his neck and weaving her own slender fingers through his tousled locks, nodding against his chest. Before she could stop it a laugh escaped from her, and he started to laugh to, until he cut it off by swooping his head down to hers and kissing her with a kiss that was full of apologies and wants and desires and Time and tears and past and future. She became so confused with all of these emotions that she just went limp and kissed him back, not caring what she felt anymore, lips melting against lips, souls melting back together, wounds closing.

Two hours later, Jack had taken out his tools for art again. For so long he hadn't drawn a single piece, but now a familiar sense of possession by that was overtaking him and he felt a need to work in the trade he loved. He removed a charcoal stub from his tool belt. The first thing Rose had bought after the sinking was a leather portfolio that could be tied shut by leather straps. It was almost a replica of his old one, and that didn't surprise him, since these things didn't come in much variety. It had just as much emotional meaning as his other one had, because his Rose had given it to him. His last one had been a gift from Pa when he was maybe eleven. Ma had commanded that he do so, because she was sick of Jack drawing on the walls and in the dirt. He smiled at the memory.

Now, as Rose watched curiously over his shoulder, he pressed the charcoal to the paper and watched the black smudge grow. Suddenly he knew exactly what to draw. The lines started spiraling across the given space. He felt the passion throbbing within him for his job. Shapes started blossoming.

Rose recognized the forms of three people, two big, one small. The bigger ones seemed to be men. Jack's warm, rough hands moved like dancers to a beautiful song as they continued – stubble on both men's face, a stovepipe hat on one, a flat sort of cap on the other . . . the little one had rich dark curls. Suddenly it hit her. Fabrizio, Tommy, Cora. Flashes from her past illuminated her mind as, finally, he drew her favorite part – the eyes.

Their eyes were glimpses of days on the Ship of Dreams as she chose to remember them, sunlight-filled, smiling, beautiful, fantasizing. But deep inside, past that, she somehow saw the haunting blackness from casualties to an unknown war, the unsettling gaze of shattered lives and unfinished dreams and broken hearts, the soul-wrenching feeling of sweet innocence forsaken. She almost heard the glass of their spirits break. It stirred so many, many memories . . . who knew that you could have so many memories after just a few days? But she had them, all of them, and worst of all was the phantom-like face of a little girl, an adorable little girl that danced and danced and danced to music never ceasing . . .

Jack couldn't stand it anymore when he finished. Tommy and Fabri were leaning against the railing of something that didn't exist anymore. Cora stood by them, holding her doll to her, pointing at something in the sky. She would never, ever see the sky again.

Images from his imagination began to completely overtake his mind. At first all he could see was blackness, but suddenly ghostly shapes took form, and there was the body of Fabrizio de Rossi on the ocean floor, miles beneath the sea. Jack shook, and then all of the sudden Fabrizio opened his mouth and screamed. Death grasped him with a hand like a vice and he kept on screaming. Then Jack screamed too, because he had done this, he had let him die, he had broken promises. Their screams were lost in the Atlantic. They would never be heard. They would never make it to the surface.

Then he was back on the couch, with the love of his life behind him, and drawings of his life in front of him, and he had hurt them all. He collapsed onto the sofa, weeping. He was done holding it in, he was sick of pretending to be not emotional, because really, emotions were all he had. The tears came so hard and fast his face became a lake. His moans swirled through the apartment.

Rose wasn't surprised when Jack started to cry. She had seen it coming. She had been wishing it would so he could heal. Immediately she went around to the other side of the couch and sat next to him, pulling him to her, cradling his head against her chest, murmuring to him like he was her child, rocking him back and forth, smoothing his hair. He clung to her with fingers like stone.

For some reason, he didn't even feel ashamed. His best friend and his love were the only ones here, and that was all he needed. "I love you," she whispered. "I love you, I love you, I love you." What had he done to deserve a partner in life like this? Unworthiness crept into him again.

"I love you," he sobbed, and suddenly he knew that was all he needed to know. He loved her. Everything else was irrelevant. The past would never leave him and there would be more of this, but at the moment, nothing else mattered.

He sat up, and she wiped away his tears. She was being so tender to him, so gentle, and so caring that he all of the sudden gathered his strength from hers. When she leaned in slowly to kiss him, he met her half way. She had meant for it to be soft, but desperately their lips became entangled in a lover's dance, their tongues meeting, hands exploring. Passion and despair stirred to create absolute perfection in that kiss. And perfection always leads to something more.

Jack opened the window the next morning at dawn. The inside of their apartment was stifling, but he soon found that the outside wasn't much better. Bizarre smells wafted inside – smells of everything from that damn bakery to sewage. He wished, for just a moment, that he was back in Chippewa Falls, with its apple-and-grass-scented air, rolling hills, and endless sky. He supposed Rose would like it better there too. This city life wasn't for free spirits like them. Maybe after the wedding . . .

There was an awful lot of planning that still had to be done. They hadn't a clue about they date, but Jack wanted it soon. They had talked about it drowsily last night in bed, and Rose had insisted that Jack wear what he wore everyday. She didn't want him dressed up. She said it something like she wanted the Jack she had met in April. That's who he was anyway and he didn't mind.

He watched the early morning bustle as people made their way to work in the same timeless, boring routine that was driving him mad. It was a Thursday, but he wasn't gonna go to the factory today. He couldn't. He was tired, Rose was tired, and they needed the day to get to know each other again.

That made him jerk out of his sleepy trance and almost silently enter the kitchen. He found a huge pan and put it on the stove which he lit with a match so flames erupted under the burner. He opened the icebox and quietly took out a handful of eggs, which he cooked. Then he got the bread from the breadbox and carefully toasted it over another burner. When breakfast was ready another smell sizzled through the rooms – a smell of food. He served it up on plates and carried them and two glasses of juice, tottering, into the bedroom.

He sighed when he saw her. She was bare, but covered with a thin white sheet. It made her look even more angelic. Her eyes were peacefully closed, and her chest rose up and down with each breath she took.

He put the food on the bed beside her and leaned over her, sprinkling soft kisses on her face. She stirred, stretching, until her arms suddenly clasped around his neck. Her eyes fluttered open like budding magnolia leaves against a blue sky. "Mmm . . . I love it when you wake me up like that," she whispered, smiling tiredly.

"And I do so love wakin' you up like that," he answered almost inaudibly, not wanting to break the morning silence. He caressed her smooth, fine cheek with his calloused hands of an artist. She pressed her own hand over his.

"Are you leaving now?" She asked, her eyes flickering up to him with dread written in their irises, savoring their moment together.

"Nah, I think I'll stay home –"

"Really?!" She squealed before he could finish, hugging him so tight he thought his head would fall off and all circulation had stopped. He chuckled and laced his arm around her waist, pulling her against him, his fingers tracing lines down her spine. "We have to talk about the wedding!"

He nodded, relief dancing in his eyes, and Rose realized that their love had not dimmed at all over the past month; it was still as violently and gently and boldly present as it had always been. Feeling a sudden loveburst wash over her, she shivered. He must have thought she was cold because he slipped under the covers with her and held her, softly kissing her scarlet hair. She fit perfectly into the contours of his body, nestled against him and holding him, her own fingertips dancing on his clothed stomach. The food lay getting cold, forgotten, at the foot of the bed.

"When?" He murmured, speaking the previously unspoken question that had burdened her for a month. She stirred slightly to look up at him as she untwisted his suspender straps.

"Soon," she answered, desire from her burning holes in him, "Very soon."

She knew that he wanted it soon to. He wanted them to be married. He was getting restless of staying in New York. She could feel it from him. New York could not be his home. He belonged in a place with no boundaries, a place that she desperately wanted to share with him.

"You need a wedding dress."

He felt the double take she gave him. There money supply was about as dry as a desert. The factory paid in what seemed like dirt rather than cash. But she didn't know he had been saving bits and pieces of his pay check for a long time – not to mention getting a generous wad of dollars from the leaser of their apartment. Tom had insisted that he was paying too much to live in that hunk of junk anyway. Not that Jack could disagree.

The questioning gaze that found him made him reach under their bed and produce a dusty glass jar filled to the brim with dollars and worn down coins. He was proud that there was enough for a cheaper wedding dress without Cal's money. They had both agreed that they would not use it. That she was completely independent now. It may have been foolish stubborn pride, but everything was turning out alright in the end.

She gasped when he nodded to confirm that she had heard correctly. "A . . . a wedding dress? But I thought . . ." Her face was puzzled.

"Not an expensive one, though, but I –"

She squealed in excitement and crushed herself against him so he couldn't breathe all over again. He never knew not breathing could feel this good. "We should go pick it out soon," he gasped, hardly able to talk at all. That of course just made her squeeze harder and again, he didn't mind.

Suddenly she let go of him and bounded out of bed, flying to the wardrobe and changing into her undergarments and a lemon-yellow gown with a wide skirt. He sat up and crossed his legs, watching her excitement with happiness that was sprinkling his life now. She quickly secured her hair in a sort of elegant updo with pins, letting her few stubborn curls fall and lie on her neckline as they seemed to always do. "Let's go!" She demanded, grabbing his hand and trying to pull him up.

Of course she couldn't, and for a moment Jack just sat their grinning until he allowed himself to bound to his feet and sweep her in his arms. She tried to fight for a moment, eager to get going, but he wouldn't let her go and finally she just collapsed against him, pressing her cheek against his muscled chest for a moment. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you, thank you, thank you . . ."

He just nodded into her hair, saying it all.

The minute Rose walked in the bridal shop on 2nd Avenue she felt like a girl again in a fairy tale. All around her were mazes of silky, velvety white, soft and beautiful, like snow suspended in midair. The scent of crisp, new fabric hung in the little room. Somehow she managed to weave her way to the counter where a woman with wavy, tightly crimped fawn-colored hair and pale, freckled skin stood leafing through a magazine. Rose crinkled her brow when she saw how tight the girl's skirt was but dismissed it without warning. She had to hurry because for some reason, Jack wanted to take her out to lunch. He was "planning," as he called it. He had gone to visit the Reverend.

The worker looked up immediately when she heard approaching footsteps and shoved the magazine under the counter. She licked her lips and uncomfortably Rose felt as if she were assessing her body and size. "How can I help you?" She asked, suddenly all business.

"I'm getting married and –"

"Ah! Say no more! Follow me!" And just like that she was off, flying down the aisles, flicking dresses back with her thin fingertips, all the while turning back to look at Rose and compare her to the gowns.

Rose was feeling dizzy from the speed of everything and tried to compose herself. "I have a price range though, but –"

"Madam, I don't believe we sell anything over your price range."

That made Rose pause. Who gave this woman the right to assess her worth so freely? To judge her? And what did she mean, nothing over her price range? Either this was a terrible shop, or there was some sort of misunderstanding and Rose was betting on the latter. "Well . . . I want a dress for an efficiently low price . . ."

The way the girl raised her eyebrows at Rose quizzically told her that for some reason she thought that Rose was wealthier than she really was. All of the sudden panic ensued her. Had this worker read that article in the paper a month ago about the "Hockley Loss" as it was titled? Or had she read of the funeral that had gone by for Rose DeWitt-Bukater without a body? Had she recognized her and guessed that all had been ironed out? Would she tell anyone?

These thoughts came so quickly and with such power that Rose was breathing way too loud and fast. She tried frantically to regulate her body, and found that it wasn't as difficult as could be expected. If it was so, she'd simply set the woman straight. If it wasn't, there was no need to bring up the matter. With these ideas and the newfound calmness that Jack had given her, she realized there was no need to be afraid. What could this poor, petite, shriveled shop worker do anyway?

"Actually, my husband-to-be and I are a little on the financially troubled scale, so I suppose my question is, can you help me or not?" The way in which Rose spoke left no room for questioning and very little time for chitchat.

The woman, Rose read her embroidered shirt as Georgina now, seemed a little bit surprised but did not let much emotion show. She nodded, answered, "Of course, would you do me the courtesy of following me?" and walked off.

Amusing herself a little, Rose let her mouth move and silently mimic Georgina with the same words, _of course, would you do me the courtesy of following me_? Then she smoothed her top and did follow this so far dreadful woman.

"This is a modern model," the shopkeeper explained, stopping at a gown so smothered in lace and pearls that, when Rose went to lift the fabric, she estimated its weight at half that of her own. The sleeves were flounced and huge in all that Edwardian glamour called for these days. With the jar securely hidden in the folds of her skirts, she checked the price tag, knowing she would never buy this particular dress anyway. When she saw that it was five-hundred dollars she nearly died. Five-hundred dollars?! That was a fortune, a fortune to feed a third-world country for a year! She shook her head, her eyes pointedly fixed on the tag.

"No? Well then, we have something that might be better accustomed to your price range and still in this lovely style." She flipped a few hangers away to reveal a more of an off-white, creamy color dress with the access material giving it volume and weight. Rose assessed it carefully, considering it when she saw it was only fifty-two dollars. But all of the sudden a foggy, smoky memory pushed forward in her brain and with horror she recognized it as a design similar to the one that had been chosen for her canceled union with Caledon Hockley. The cut was nearly the same, and it was the same color. The fabric was obviously not Italian-tailored like her own had been, and the gown was not dripping in jewels and French lace. But it bore a light resemblance, and even light was enough for her to shake her head furiously.

Again the woman raised her eyebrows, and said, "Well, we have another dress, not in this modern style . . . no . . . But I personally love this one because it uniqueness would fit someone like you, someone with such obvious individuality."

Rose didn't let the pampering of words work on her, but instead tapped her foot impatiently. Georgina understood the sign and immediately floated down the aisle in her phantom-like way, stopping and leafing out another gown.

The first thing that ran through Rose's mind was, _It's beautiful._ There was something so wonderfully rare in it . . . and for some reason she couldn't quite place it. Then it hit her. It looked similar to the dress she had been wearing that night . . . the night that she had made love for the first time, the night that she had experienced death again, the night that she had felt all of her dreams that had grown break. It looked similar to the dress that had been showered in fiery heat and ardor, in fear and bitterness, in such deep, deep, cold that it penetrated her heart and brain, in blood. There was something emotionally represented by the fact that it was as white as the whitest snow, so pure and faultless that it for some reason promised her life and love. It was simple, just like the other one, the sleeves cut a little bit after her shoulders and an angelic white transparent sash tied around the waist. She guessed the skirt would fall to her ankles, and there was a small length of lace framing the low, straight edge at the top of the gown, just above the top of her breasts.

For a moment, she simply stared, overwhelmed by the similarities and perfection in one work of art. "I'll take it!" She cried, so loudly that Georgina jumped. "How much?"

"Uhh . . . it's . . ." Before the clerk could answer, Rose snatched the tag and felt herself melt in gratefulness when she saw it was only forty-three dollars. She slipped the jar out and ran to the counter, carefully counting coins and bills.

When the money had been sorted, Rose said off-handedly, "I'll pick it up on my wedding day."

"When should we be expecting you then?" Georgina asked, pressing the dress and lifting it over the counter to hang behind her.

"Who knows?!" Rose exclaimed. "Soon. Probably in less than a week." Her smile was so bright that everything that had plagued her for a month was lifted and she felt as light as a butterfly in the wind. There was something about picking out a wedding dress that made the ceremony seem so close it felt tangible, like she could touch it.

"Oh, well, miss, we don't do holds for more than two weeks, and if you don't know, maybe –"

But the look Rose gave her sliced like a hatchet through butter and Georgina just nodded, gave Rose a scrap of paper as proof of her purchase, and waved her out the door.

The sunlight seemed entirely brighter than it had ever been, warm and beautiful and pleasing to her soul as Rose twirled through the streets that weren't as crowded as usual, since more than ninety percent of New York City's population had to be at work. She danced her way to the clock where Jack had said to meet him, gazing at her reflection in the small pond around that clock. The sky was reflected too, behind her, and it made her look like she was flying, exactly how her heart felt.

She would be lying to herself if she thought she wasn't nervous. She was more than nervous. She was terrified. Marriage was, by far, one of the most challenging things that she had ever dreamt of attempting, even if she felt like she was marrying a god from Mt. Olympus itself. In her mind, Jack Dawson was the perfect man, more perfect, by far, than anyone she had ever or would ever see in her lifetime. He cared about her, in a way that went past their physical intimacy, in a way that he loved her mind, her soul, her thoughts, her personality. All of her. And for that she loved all of him.

It was strange, really, how to beings could be so attracted when it seemed everything in the entire world was pulling them apart. Societies and people and positions . . . and the sea. Somehow, though, they had proved that real love cannot die. Whether that was true or not to reality didn't matter, because it was true to them.

Her face lit into a brilliant smile and happiness accented her light steps as she gracefully made her way to the clock bench. A tap on the shoulder startled her, sending shivers to run down her body. Immediately she froze, because she had heard stories of men who . . . who . . .

But when she whirled around and began to recognize the touch, the terror on her face dissipated, and the brilliant smile returned. "Looking for someone?" Jack murmured, his arms crossed, leaning against a pole. Seeing that intense laidback joy dancing in those mysterious blue eyes of his again, finally, maybe for the first time since their engagement, she stood on tiptoe and pressed her mouth against his, so soft Jack blandly thought she felt like a feather. Completely unaware of passerby looking at them disdainfully, he wrapped his arms around her waist and held her up to meet him.

"So," he whispered huskily when they finally broke apart and she laid her head on his shoulder, "I reckon this means you had a good experience finding a wedding dress. When can I see – "

She looked at him suddenly, her eyes as big as buttons. "No, no, no, Jack! No! You should know that the groom can't see the bride's gown until the wedding! No!" She shook her head viciously, like an innocent little child.

Amusement flickered in his face and he grinned. "You win. Again."

She playfully nodded. "Did you get it all sorted out with the Reverend? And what did you mean, the "Reverend?" There are a trillion churches in this city and we can't possibly get married by every single preacher! And did you decide where you want the wedding to be? I've been thinking about it –"

Her face was glowing with excitement, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks rosy. Gently, he pressed a finger to her supple lips, thinking he had never seen anything, and he meant anything, quite like her. "You're so beautiful . . ." His voice trailed off almost soundlessly, like he hadn't meant to say it aloud.

At first, she had looked surprised when he had shushed her. But then when he had spoken, her cheeks lit with a furious blush and she buried her face in his chest so that no one else could see the flaming heat of her face.

"I went to that non-denominational chapel . . . because I was raised Baptist and you mentioned something about Protestant . . . and he agreed to do it this Saturday."

All of the sudden she looked up. This Saturday? As in two days? Yes, she had thought soon, but Saturday was almost . . . well, almost this second! She wasn't ready for Saturday, she could never be ready for Saturday, oh my god, Saturday!

Her heart started fluttering so fast she couldn't breathe, and everything started to spin. Jack Dawson wanted to marry her, _her_, this Saturday . . . God, she couldn't . . . The cold feet set in immediately, and she felt sick.

But then she looked up.

It was an almost miraculous feeling, looking up. Before that second, she felt so close to dying or going insane that everything was buzzing and bile was rising in her throat and her head hurt so bad it should have been illegal. But when she looked up, she saw the man whom she loved. It was the most catastrophic and wonderful moment of her life, so simple and beautiful. An inner sort of peace washed over her and all she could see was that adorable puppy-dog look on his face, his hair hanging in warm blonde strands into eyes that pierced her with an intensity only he possessed on this earth. For once the ice in their blue was gone, and a look of absolute devotion took its place, an almost sacred look, and she felt her heart slow down and finally, she was safe.

_Saturday. I can do Saturday. We can do Saturday._

"Saturday sounds perfect," she whispered, quietly as the tranquil feeling carried her along and they started walking, hand in hand. Her dress billowed around her shins and the few loose curls blew alongside her face. Every once and awhile she felt him looking at her, trying to say something, but she couldn't, maybe wouldn't detect it. He could speak if he wanted to.

"Well, uhh . . . Rose, well, I could, I mean, if it's about the money, I could borrow a suit from someplace, a tux or something, I don't have to marry you looking like –" His words were so awkward, so uncomfortable, that he knew he shouldn't have spoken in the first place. Rose wasn't one to lie, even for money.

"You," she finished scoldingly. "Looking like you. That's exactly the way I want you, Mr. Dawson." It made him shiver when he saw that raw love in her eyes, love that mirrored his own, love so furiously passionate that he didn't feel like he could look at it for too long. He did, though. Every day.

Right now, he was a little off-center, not really paying attention. He felt completely preoccupied. He hardly realized it, but they had just planned his wedding. Their wedding. And it was just two days away.

_Impossible_, his mind whispered. _You? Jack Dawson? As in "the" Jack Dawson? Getting married? Already?! No way._

Yet as crazy as it seemed, it was definitely possible – more than possible. It was happening. It seemed almost lunatic now that he remembered where he had been hardly a quarter of a year ago. Three months earlier he had been slumped under that old stone bridge in Southampton, listening to a light drizzle patter in time with automobile roars and horse's feet clatter. It had been chilly – chilly enough for him to lit a smoke and pull his coat tightly around him. Fabri had been sitting beside him smoking too – his third cigarette in his life. When Jack had learned that Fabrizio de Rossi had never smoked, well, that had been the first thing he had taught him. Sometimes when Jack had looked into the eyes of the Italian, he had to wonder if he missed his homeland. Basically, Jack had passed through and Fabri had come with him on his way out. No looking back, no second glance, no regrets. He had the illusion that nothing had changed, that Italy was a part of his past, and he had been able to see America in his future. They'd never had gotten there though, not like that. A few weeks ago, when they had had almost enough money, Fabrizio had been jumped walking to the pub. Then under that bridge, they had been almost starving, but the stress had been so bad that they had wasted a loaf of bread on the very cigarettes that had dangled from their pale lips. Jack had been ready to get out of England. He'd had enough of the cold and the damp and the grey. The last thing he remembered about that night was falling asleep to the soothing sound of Fabri's voice singing something absent-mindedly and to his own thought that they'd bet their way out in the morning.

Now he was walking hand in hand with the prettiest girl in the entire world, inside and out and back and forth. And the scariest thing – he was getting married. There was no more adventurous, up and run life for him.

No, this was an adventure all of its own. Eventually his nerves were quieted and his heart stopped banging and his mouth worked. "You still wanna eat at that little café I told you about? On the corner?"

She looked up for a second, and then down at their interlocked hands. "Yes, I'd like that very much actually." He grinned down at her, and she felt herself blushing again.

The two made their way down the street, for the first time in a long time happy and content and satisfied with golden promises of yet to come.

They hadn't bought much, just a bowl of soup each and a plate of hot rolls. But the food was delicious, as Jack had promised, and the conversation was a million times better.

Something that struck Rose was that she had never been in a restaurant with Jack before. Their money situation had been, and still was at best, less than tight and at the shelter they had gotten handouts. But now in public, she was so proud to be sitting at this dingy little table waiting for the check, her fingers tracing the again charcoal-lined knuckles of the man across from her. They hadn't talked about the wedding much anymore. It was all planned.

Jack's eyes traveled every now and then to Rose's abdomen. At first she became worried, terrified even, that he was having second thoughts. That he didn't want the baby. But all of the sudden he stood up and squatted down beside her chair, taking her hand and gently stroking her stomach. "I can't believe it," he whispered.

The fact that he was strong enough to still want to have a family with her so soon, with so little time, made her insides melt all over again and come from her eyes in the form of hot tears of joy.

The moment Jack saw those tears dripping his mind whispered to him, "When will they stop?" It seemed as if the grief and the joy, the rollercoaster of emotions that more often than not left them in that abyss of pain, would never level out. Anyone with less faith and endurance than them could not possibly have survived the bloody times they had. It took all he even had to keep himself together.

But right now he exiled these thoughts from his mind into the empty air around him, away from the two of them, and briskly smoothed away the drops of water from her cheeks. Suddenly she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him so tightly that the food in him would have left his stomach had it been anyone else.

However, it was not anyone else, and instead an absolutely ecstatic feeling was dumped on him instead. He pulled her closer to him for that second, his body responding like he had never felt her before, awkward and anxious and so happy that it felt like he was splitting in two.

It was the first sign that maybe, someday, things would be okay. And maybe, someday, _Titanic_ would just be a memory instead of a reality.


	3. This Moment in Time

**This is a long chapter, but I couldn't really separate it that well! I hope you like it and the long wait is worth something . . .**

"It'll all work out fine in the end, darling, you'll see," Victoria Benova murmured as soothingly as she could, smoothing Rose's fiery red curls in the bedroom of the apartment and trying to braid them into a manageable plait so Rose could sleep. That proved to be an extremely difficult task, however, because this Rose woman was as jittery as a newborn baby, shaking and turning and crying at intervals.

"But why did he have to leave already? He's supposed to leave while I'm sleeping, he's not supposed to have gone yet, that's not how it goes! Oh my God, what if he's having second thoughts or he decided to –"

Rose was silenced suddenly by Victoria's thin hand pressed to her clammy and cold lips. Her heart was banging so hard that she couldn't breathe at all because its range obscured her lungs and cut off her air supply. Sweat was beading on her forehead and every peaceful feeling she had ever had about her wedding was absolutely gone.

Tom had arrived to take Jack away that morning, when Rose had still been groggy from sleep and hadn't fully eaten her breakfast yet. She had even still been in her bathrobe. Jack had taken the day before their wedding off of work, but had been dressed and awake and alive, which wasn't at all unusual for him.

Rose had thought that she'd be fine. She thought that when Jack left, she'd be happy, because that meant it was closer to the actual ceremony.

She hadn't thought that he'd be leaving so early.

It had surprised her, really, the terror she had felt when Jack had started to pull on his boots by the front door. Often he had done this before he went to the factory, but she knew he wasn't going to be at work and it petrified her because Tom wouldn't tell where he was taking her fiancé, and the last time she hadn't known where he was had been that time in which all time had froze and her very soul had been so badly damaged it hadn't even fully healed yet.

She had tried to keep her composure when Jack had promised that he'd see her tomorrow on the aisle and that he'd be sure not to let Tom take him far away, but she had failed. Tears had started to wind down her face as they stood alone in their living room with the front door closed for a private farewell, their last words as simply lovers.

He had looked shocked when she started to cry and fervently wiped her cheeks, whispering to her, trying to calm her, and when he had seen that that wasn't going to work, he had just grabbed her and pulled her to him, promising that he wouldn't ever leave her, kissing her forehead.

That had been enough at the moment because she had learned to trust him. His eyes had shone with conviction like blue steel when he said softly and huskily that they would make it, that they would be fine. She wasn't sure that he truly understood it was not the wedding that horrified her – it was losing him all over again. But she had managed to put her emotions under control and kiss him one last time, all of the passion and fear and fragile feelings going from her lips to his. And when Victoria had arrived to take care of Rose, she had let him go and walk out her door.

She hadn't been consolable since.

Even though, somewhere deep in her heart, she knew his word was as good as anything she would ever need, another evil voice told her he was gone, she had let him be gone, and he wouldn't come back. That she had driven him away. The very thought of life without him was enough to throw her back into that immortal night of wickedness, of despair and desolation and loneliness and pain. That was a night, a place, she had never wanted to visit again, and she couldn't seem to leave it. She needed _him_, the essence of him, the arms of him, the scent of him. Without him, she couldn't even think straight. She looked like a mess and prayed that in the morning she'd look better, but she didn't see how that would happen since she wasn't going to sleep anyway.

Her stomach was turning in all directions. Was it from the baby or from her own nerves? Perhaps both.

"You need to relax," Victoria stated, as if she knew these things. Rose guessed she most likely did. Her marriage had lasted successfully for nigh on ten years if the number could be believed. Her pale brown hair, the color of a fawn, was pinned delicately behind her head and her lace-trimmed deep green dress was a little tight around the middle where she had rounded out lately. Rose hadn't asked and Victoria hadn't told, but she thought that maybe the older woman was also pregnant, and if that was true it would be their first as well. Actually, Victoria's complexion had been whiter lately, and her eyes more dull. That was what happened to some when they became with child, but others, like Rose herself, simply sparkled, looking healthier than they had their entire life.

The thought of her baby suddenly comforted her immensely, and her hand slipped down her now wrinkled robe and rested on her abdomen, trying to see through the skin and bones and blood to her infant that she would someday cradle in her arms. It was like a piece of Jack couldn't leave her, even if he did, and all of the sudden she realized that he loved that little one and the woman carrying him more than anything else on this entire planet. If he felt even a percentage of the way she did, he'd be at that alter tomorrow.

As much as she tried to let tranquility to drift over her, it only worked part way. The strange feeling in the pit of her stomach settled there and wouldn't leave her alone, but at the same time another emotion burst into her soul, that electrifying presence of mind she got whenever she thought of her husband-to-be. In that battle of the heart, she began to let herself relax a little, and soon her waxy skin began to fade back into its rosy glow. She didn't want to think, because thoughts had always been her worst enemy at times like this. Instead she just silently mouthed words to the one inside of her, and to the one that was her other half. She could not help but feel they both heard her.

As she sank onto her bed, she realized that sleep came easier than she had thought it would. Easier, maybe, but she still lay awake for a long time, long after Victoria had fallen asleep on the sofa, trying to imagine Jack's arms around her.

She failed miserably.

"Okay, now, Jackie boy, this is your last night as a bachelor. Your very last night to go a little wild. What do you want to do?" Tom's friend that Jack had just met, Charlie, had that deceitful fire in his muddy brown eyes, that look of total wildness that Jack must have once had himself but had been beaten away years ago. He had experienced way too much to ever think like that again.

He sighed at what Charlie had said. "My last night as a bachelor was April 14," he answered angrily. Marriage was really just an official thing because Jack and Rose had been spiritually married for a long time, and to even suggest that Jack would ever cheat on her was infuriating. No one could know the depth of love that they had shared, the strings of passion tying them together and holding them there, saving them, saving _him_. If only this man knew what they had been through, how close they had been to being nothing but miserable, empty souls roaming the planet. No one else had felt death's icy grasp squeeze and clamp around their hearts that only broke through from their fervent beating. No one else had seen the spiraling grey and white arms of the Milky Way swirling over water as black as the sky, knowing it would be the last time they ever saw the stars, but dying to live and living to die for the one and only person that could ever make them feel that way.

It was strange how much he missed her. They hadn't spent a night away from each other in a long time, and it was just natural that he wanted her to be with him so bad right then that there was a pain in his chest where his heart was. When he had left, he had kept a straight face, hadn't showed a single emotion. But it was harder now, because he would never see Rose again, she would be his wife. Not just his lover, but his wife. He didn't really like the reputation that housewives had tacked onto them. Rose wasn't at all like that, and he didn't ever want to see her like that: someone only capable of running a household. That was another reason marriage scared him.

Tom had, in his usual Tom-like way, forgotten not only his money, but his coat and hat. He was an extremely irresponsible person when it came to holding onto his possessions, and his excitement about this last night before Jack's wedding had drove him out the door without it. That was his excuse anyway. Jack had become closer to Tom, but he wasn't exactly a wonderful friend, and Jack didn't think he could be, because Jack had had those wonderful friends – especially one in particular. He was convinced that men like that did not come more than once. He felt like his heart would never open to a best friend again. It was still sour and bitter from the loss of that Italian that Jack had promised to save, and he had failed. He knew his heart would always hurt like this.

So Tom had left, and Charlie had told Tom where he would meet him. Tom had seemed against it and had murmured something else, but Charlie had shaken his head and pushed Tom off.

This Charlie character had led Jack through the back alleys of New York City, never nice alleys in particular. Jack remembered them from when he was sixteen and they definitely hadn't gotten any better. He kept his eyes straight ahead of him all the time and didn't dare look around to see the prostitutes or the thieves or the rapists. He couldn't believe that he was in this place again, and that was when he decided that he'd get Rose outta New York City if it was the last thing he ever did.

Now Charlie looked ashamed, horrified even, because Jack wasn't as sleazy as he was. He shook his head and dug his hands in his pockets. He looked and sounded like a cardsharp, and Jack couldn't believe that he had left Rose alone on this night for this. It was pathetic. His guide murmured something about waiting for Tom to come back and "show them around because it wasn't safe." Jack didn't bother to point out that he had wandered these streets alone, as a vagabond, and the memories were imprinted so vividly in his mind that nothing could faze him. If there was one thing he had, it was the smarts of, as Cal had once said what seemed like so long ago, a "gutter rat." Rose had told him everything of that conversation.

It had been a long time since he had allowed his mind to run over those few horrifyingly perfect days aboard the Ship of Dreams. Whenever _Titanic_ came into his head he violently pushed it out, not willing to allow another ounce of pain in his life. However, he had eventually realized that there would always be that ache, sometimes dull and sometimes sharp and grueling. He couldn't control it, and right now seeing these homeless people lying in doorways, he missed that past wonderful reality so much that he was forced to fall back into time, slipping across the pages of his history.

_The moment Jack saw Rose's eyes light up, he knew what her answer would be. He had never seen her irises such brilliant pools of green and deep blue, like magnolia leaves and the sky coming together, shining and swirling and glowing, flickering with the electric glow of the light above them in the dome of the Grand Staircase. He felt so uncomfortable in this scratchy suit. The moment Molly Brown had fitted his jacket on him he had looked like a whole other person, definitely not the off-the-cuff man he really was. But it seemed like this Rose DeWitt-Bukater girl saw past all of it and saw him for who he really was. The best part was that she seemed to like that person more than his clothes, which wasn't something he could say for her bastard fiancé. _

_When he had first met Rose, he had wanted to make their conversation light to outweigh the honest-to-God seriousness of the moment. He had said he might need to get her to write her name down – it was a lot of fancy syllables and weird accents. He had lied. The name of this celestial goddess hadn't left his mind since it had left her silken tongue and he didn't think it ever would. He was confused that he seemed to be so suddenly obsessed with her, but he let it go because it didn't matter. She was here with him._

_At first she looked intimidated and terrified, but then suddenly she giggled and held out her elegantly gloved hand, gracefully curved and lovely. "A _real_ party, Mr. Dawson? Are you saying that my absolutely stimulating crowd isn't exciting enough for you?"_

_He detected the joking in her voice before he had enough time to register embarrassment. He raised an eyebrow at her and she dissolved into silent laughter as he took her hand and led her away from her crowd._

_It was an amazing feeling, leading her away from her crowd. It was like he was rescuing her from something that bit at her with the viciousness of some beast. He was finally showing her something other than the tacky, fake, fabricated way of life that was all she had ever known. And the trust that she showed for him so obviously was absolutely incredible. He'd never have been able to trust anyone like she did._

_They weaved through people and it seemed she forgot where she was. It was like she didn't care anymore. She had transformed into almost an innocent child, dropping the weight of whatever burden had been thrown on her. It shocked him how fast she could become herself and her fake self without warning._

_"Jack? Where are you taking me? Jack?!" Her whisper rose to a furious murmur. She tugged on the sleeve of the tuxedo, trying to force him to turn around and talk to her, but he only chuckled and towed her onwards._

_"Wait, Rose, you'll see!" He returned, smiling widely, almost giddy. He shoved open the door and pulled her out with him onto boat deck. The air had taken a turn for the cooler, fresh to his lungs and blood. He clasped her delicate fingers with his calloused ones and drew her up until she was next to him and no longer being tugged behind him. _

_The loose curls of her hair were tossed around her face like strands of blood, beautifully red, memorizing him so that he had to try harder than he should have had to to focus on what she was saying._

_"I'm sorry about my mother, Jack," she said softly, suddenly serious. She didn't fight his hand but didn't ignore it either. He could see her eyes flutter every once and awhile to their palms entwined together, and he couldn't help but wonder desperately what she was thinking. His heart was beating so hard he was afraid it would give him away._

_"Aw, your mother? Don't worry 'bout it, Rose. Wasn't a big deal. I'm used to people havin' different ideas than me." His pathetic attempt to shrug off her comment made her shoot him a double take._

_"No, no, Jack, she's always like that. It's terrible, I know. Ever since my father passed away last autumn, she hasn't been . . . the same." All of the sudden her irises turned black with grief, retreating into a past that he could not see. She seemed to wilt right before his eyes, and in his grip her hand became limp._

_He looked at her sympathetically, knowing the pain of loss and the pain of never gaining, because he had been there before. He licked his lip; trying to think of something to say, trying to save her, rescue her from the agony that was ravaging her bruised heart. There was only one thing that he could say._

_"I'm sorry, Rose. I mean it."_

_She turned abruptly at that, and he had a strong feeling that no one ever "meant" something that they said to her, that her life was completely fake, and that it was killing her. Moments ago he had marveled at how quickly she could change, but now she could not convert back to tonight from all of her yesterdays swiftly enough. For just one second, he could see her anguish and misery. He could see the mortal wounds that life had inflicted upon her._

_And then it was gone._

_"You make me feel so guilty. Look how silly I am! I still have my mother, and my home, but you lost everything, and so young, too. I can't possibly ever feel sorry for myself when you're around."_

_She shook her head and tried to weakly smile but failed so pitifully that he stopped walking and held her back with him. His breathing became irregular and he could feel his veins popping in his neck. He grasped her shoulders and turned her to face him. He was so close to her that he lost what he had been planning to say, lost what ever had possessed him to do that in the first place. Her lips opened into a ripe, round circle of surprise, red as a ripe strawberry and he would bet his life that they tasted so sweet. But it wasn't the time for such thoughts that were winding through his head. All he knew was that she was hurt, she was dying, and she was lying to him about it._

_"You don't need to hide yourself from me," he whispered passionately, honestly, huskily. The intensity of his gaze was boring through her skin and soul into the inner depths of her very being. For a moment her magnolia-colored eyes were as wide as saucers, and she seemed about to faint of shock. But she did not push him away._

_Breath met with breath, pain with pain, loss with loss. Something melded them together, something that Jack didn't know the name of yet, but a tickle of conscience told him destiny. Her beautiful shoulders rose and fell with each gasp of cool air she managed to take into her form, and his hands traveled down to her forearms. She shivered and he shivered, but it wasn't from the cold._

_In that second, a truth was laid naked and bare in front of him, swirling in her irises of emerald whirlpools. He realized that he was in way too deep to ever leave her again. For a brief second his future was spread out before him, and she was in it. For just that moment, he let the scream of his soul explode outside of him, to her, that forbidden cry of need and desire and inevitable love. But before he had time to identify these banned emotions, that social barrier started building itself up again, putting itself up block by block, the very blocks he had just torn down._

_Before that minute, it had seemed as if classes and societies and rules did not separate them anymore. They were simply man and woman, Jack and a Rose, freedom and beauty all theirs. It was as if a small part in the world was right again. Being so close to her made his insides twist and writhe, but at the same time his heart leapt and sang and ran, and her heart flew with his._

_Damn this terrible, wonderful feeling inside of him!_

_He had fallen in love with this mistress of forgery, but at the heart a magnificent celestial creature, and as much as he tried to deny it, he knew that it was far, far too late too ever turn back now._

_Her lovely rosebud lips opened and closed, and he could almost see every emotion racing through her mind. The sensations stirring within him from her nearness were exhilarating and it took far too much work to concentrate on anything else._

_"I know," she finally whispered, terror vanishing from her eyes, finally replaced with something else. Trust? Did she really trust him? Oh Lord, it was too much to hope for. It sent something shooting right into his heart and for a second he believed in Cupid, arrows and all._

_He let go of her gently, regretting that he had to, seeing that her skin was creamy where he had touched and he hadn't left a physical mark, but emotionally he knew he had. They turned and continued walking, each lost in distant thoughts._

_As much as he tried to renounce it, passion was welling inside of him for this wild-haired woman, passion he had never felt before in his life._

"Jack! Oh my God, he didn't take you here did he?" Jack was woken from this wonderful memory into something far less pleasant. Prostitutes, giving their bodies fully, were the first things he saw. It was horrible, and the majority of them were people with lives that had one been full of color and love and music, but had been forced into this abuse and legal rape. It made something inside of him hurt as he remembered Paris, and he turned away.

"Charlie! What did I tell you?! Have you _seen_ his fiancée?! A man couldn't be persuaded by the world to ever dare cheat on –"

He turned to see Tom back, his eyes livid and red, and he interjected quickly, "Tom, if it's all the same to you, I'd just as soon you realize that I'm not just marrying Rose for her beauty. That's sorta on the bottom of my list."

He couldn't have stopped saying that even if he tried. It was his one amusement of the evening to see a second man's face contort with embarrassment and shame, even if it was only for a second. Ever so calmly, he inhaled and exhaled, trying to wish himself back into his apartment, trying to make Rose's figure appear in his arms, trying to force Rose's lips to be on his. But she wasn't there.

He lit a cigarette in from his pocket. Recently, Rose had decided smoking was a disgusting habit because it made his breath reek, but she wasn't there to kiss him anyway. He took a drag on his smoke, and the silvery cloud burst into the sky that was lightly sprinkled with stars, the rest hidden by light and smoke from factories and other buildings.

He was reminded of another silvery cloud of cigarette exhaust curling towards another black sky, this one exploding with stars as far as he could see, bright and searing and milky. He still felt the chill in his insides when he heard those footsteps racing by him, footsteps that stepped into his life that night.

He couldn't take much more of this. He turned to Charlie.

"You shouldn't have come here, end of story. We don't need to spend anymore time here," he forcefully yelled to be heard over the din of the crowds around him. He vaguely heard music, stomping, laughing, and he pulled himself out of another memory because he had to stay sane around these places.

Tom nodded in firm agreement, every line of his face still boiling in anger, and turned to lead the group to his apartment. Jack knew these streets better than he had previously let on, and he showed them many shortcuts through side streets and over fences. He didn't tell him why he had been here before, or how long ago. He was not ready to face those parts of his past yet. Eventually they made it and Tom unlocked his door to the dark and lonely set of rooms.

Jack was used to a beautiful, passionate, fiery redhead nearly bowling him over when he walked through his own door. He had grown so into this routine that his arms actually buzzed, telling him that he needed to hold her now.

It's not like he didn't already know.

"So, Jack, how did you and Rose meet? Obviously there must have been somethin' mighty peculiar in that encounter; you two seem from different worlds, almost."

The previously pleasant conversation was absolutely frozen by this one question. Jack's laugh evaporated from his face and his insides turned to mush.

He had thought he was on the road to healing, and every time he thought he was maybe getting just a little better, something like this happened. Something horrible. He did not want to breathe a word about that terrible event imprinted so painfully in his mind. Just because they had asked didn't mean he had to tell the truth.

Yet inside, he knew he had to. He couldn't lie to this man, because Tom had given them a place to live, had often sent food for them to eat. He had really taken them out of the cold of that goddamn shelter and brought them to a home, even if it was not a perfect one. It was still a roof, which is more than Jack had had for a long time.

But the true reason he didn't lie were because of the ghosts of his past. It seemed like it was almost a sin, to dismiss their memories in this way. The memories of his parents – they abhorred liars. The memories of Paris and England . . . that his honesty was the only thing that separated him from the other vagabonds and homeless souls wandering the streets. And then maybe most of all, it was the phantoms of that terrible, paralyzing night . . . that night in which time as the rest of the world defined it ceased to exist, that night when love and death was laid so naked in front of his eyes, that night when he saw the ocean colored black and red with terror and blood. It was in that night he had realized just how quickly the flames of passion could be lit, and how impossible it was to put them out, even with the ice that haunted his days and nights.

It seemed all of the sudden that he wasn't alone with two other men anymore, but moaning and whispering beings pressed in from all sides, and one stood out above all the rest. It was Fabrizio de Rossi.

There was such a sad look in his warm cinnamon eyes, eyes that spoke of a betrayal and a destiny that he had realized he could not control. Tears that had stopped so many months ago were still lying on his cheeks and neck. His body seemed to pound with sorrow, guilt, regret . . . everything that the past was locked in.

Jack broke out in a sweat and his mouth tried to cry out to the friend that had stayed by his side till a bitter end. He tried to scream an apology, but the Italian whose big heart had been silenced and graceful hands were forever still simply shook his head.

" . . . Jack? Jack, can you hear me?"

Jack turned wide, vacant, terrified, dark eyes to Tom and he whispered, "We met . . . on a ship." Maybe his eyes just seemed disturbing to him on the inside, because it seemed that Tom and Charlie noticed no difference, but Jack did. He could feel Fabrizio standing near him, could almost hear him murmuring that it was time to move on. And soon he heard Rose's own voice, telling him it was alright, that they'd made it, that _Titanic_ did not control them anymore.

It still controlled him.

"And . . .?" Charlie prodded, an interested look chiseled into his face. It was almost disgusting, that look. Jack took a deep breath. He couldn't mention the name. He could not dare to say _Titanic_. He couldn't lie either.

"We fell in love, but we got pulled apart, in a way," he muttered, struggling in vain to keep his words vague, so he did not have to mention the entire story.

His voice seemed in such agony that Tom and Charlie did not ask further when he finished by saying that they had gotten back together. Tom had noticed how his skin had turned white as a sheet and his blue eyes had become darkened with wisdom as they flew around the room, like he was searching for ghosts. Tom had to wonder if he saw any.

After that Jack didn't want to talk much. Other than a few offhand remarks about tomorrow, no one seemed to want to talk at all. They were each lost in separate worlds, in separate times, for separate reasons. The fire burned low until at last it was nothing more than embers glowing orange and crackling into grey clouds of ash.

Jack tried to banish Fabrizio from his mind for this one night. He wanted peace just for now. But he realized as well that this one night happened to be the night he needed his best friend the most. He had always assumed that if marriage ever was in his future, Fabri would be right there. And even though he wasn't, in a way, he was. It was completely confusing, and the only thing Jack knew of was a slightly relaxing feeling when he felt the presence of that Italian and an Irishman that he had only barely gotten to know but had respected so deeply.

Throughout the night while Jack Dawson tried to sleep, he silently whispered his fears and hopes and dreams to them. But mostly he listened, listened as they comforted his heart.

Rose stretched dreamily as her eyelids flitted open to a sun-streaked day, beautiful in just about every form that God had to offer. The morning warmth crept into her body and gave her a sense of serenity that was like magic to her.

Her hands slipped along the bedcovers to her side to run up and down the arms of the man next to her. That was strange. He wasn't there. Squeezing her eyes shut against those blinding rays, she thrust her fingertips out as far as she could, and he still wasn't there.

_I wonder why, _she thought to herself. _He doesn't have to go to work today, today's –_

All of the sudden she sat up in bed so quickly that she almost felt the baby inside of her jolt. Her palm flew to her abdomen and stroked the unborn cargo preciously as a lurch of terror rose like bile in her throat.

_Today's my wedding day_, she finished silently, shakily. Then suddenly her entire body was shivering with such ardor that the bed banged against the wall. So much stress was not good for her or her child, and she tried to calm down, but it was physically impossible.

One would think that after all she had been through, after how well she knew Jack, after her life had completely blossomed into something different, that nervousness on the day of her wedding was something that she would never face, something she only read about in storybooks.

Well, that someone would be wrong.

Victoria had picked up her wedding gown last evening from the bridal shop and now it hung, lovely and beautiful and shiny, on a hanger that was placed on the door of their tiny, cardboard-box sized closet. When she turned her jade, fear-streaked eyes to the dress, it symbolized something other than that wedding. For a second, she fought to realize what it was. It was too foreign, too terrifying, too raw.

Was it the end? Was it the end to all of this head-over-heels romance that made her feel dizzy, that was magical and magnificent? Was it the start? Was it the start of a boring and horrible life in which all of the passion would drown? Or was it something else entirely? Was it the closing to a chapter in her life written in her blood, drawn with her pain?

It was so bewildering and so agonizing that she tried with all of her strength to focus on it and still couldn't understand it. So instead, she turned away and convinced herself that this was the embarkation of a wonderful future with the man she loved more than anything that God or Satan could offer her.

Surprisingly, it worked.

The nerves in her stomach were still there, but their sensitive panic was quenched by excitement that almost hurt just as bad. All at once time couldn't move fast enough until she was at the edge of the path leading to the altar.

All at once she realized something that she should have realized a long time ago. Jack had never told her where they were getting married. It was obvious he knew, and obvious that he had chosen not to tell her. How stupid she was! Knowing him, it could be some bar, where he said the "reality of everybody is just so . . . there!" She would die if it was someplace like that. It might even be Central Park fifteen miles away. Lord could only guess where he wanted to take her.

She turned to the clock by her bed that was old and tarnished, and faintly made out through the rust the time "12:30." Damn it! It was already half past noon?! How could she have slept that late? She should have been up at the crack of dawn! Damn it, damn it, damn it!

She kicked out of her covers, entrapped by the lacy, uncomfortable nightgown she was draped in. Her hair was still in a somewhat tame braid, and when she sat down at the old, broken vanity the last tenant had left behind, she face a horrible shock.

It was almost a picture of herself months earlier. The lace crept up her neck, her curls wound over her shoulder in their tie, and in her eyes was the same haunted glaze as before. She could only attest that to her numbness at today being today, and the moment she thought of Jack, those same eyes burned with fire.

But it still wasn't enough to keep her from gasping at the coincidence.

Then she became petrified. She stood up and tripped over her chair, sending it crashing to the floor. She backed away and pushed against the mirror, causing it to totter dangerously until it finally righted again.

Somewhere in the back of her imagination, she heard the footsteps coming, and the voice. "Sweetpea," it murmured venomously, "Sweetpea . . . you're older now . . . stop it!"

Her skin became clammy and her stare empty because when she fell into her nightmare this time, Jack was not here to pull her back out. She collapsed onto the floor and drew her knees up to her stomach, whimpering.

The evil black eyes were on her again, and that disgusting hand stroked her arm and cupped her breast. Whereas in her past she had managed to get away at times like these, this imaginary time she couldn't. As Caledon Hockley transformed into a beast and started to touch her, she heard her mother behind him. "Just do as he tells you, Rose. That's what good wives do."

The terror was drowning her. _Not today,_ she thought roughly, trying to yank herself back to the present. _Definitely not today._

Why wasn't Jack here? Why did he leave her?

Her insides began to swim and she pressed the back of her hand to her white lips. Inside of her mind Cal was still there, and he was trying to take her, and no one was here to stop him. His breath fell hot on her neck like a terrible dragon, and she fought to get away, but he was so much stronger.

She screamed.

Even though everything had been imaginary, it was horrible and terrifying and she couldn't get out. The moment she screamed, everything started to dissolve like sugar into water and the only thing left was her clamoring heart, racing at a dangerous pace through her ribcage.

Victoria rushed in, her hair askew because she had been in the process of fixing it when she heard the shriek. Her beautiful dress, perfect for a day like today, was in disarray and her eyes were wide with shock.

She fell next to Rose, smoothing Rose's curls with one hand, rocking her back and forth, as Rose wept. Although Victoria had no idea what was wrong, the torture in this young woman's haunted eyes was enough to tell her that it was horrendous. Because it was so awful, it scared her. What had this girl seen? What happened?

"What is it?" She whispered fiercely, her own eyes blazing with worry. When she did not respond, she grabbed both sides of Rose's head with her hands and forced her to look into her eyes. "What is it?!"

Rose's tears halted and a foggy memory swept through her face so fast that Victoria did not have time to register what it might be. Then a barely audible murmur escaped from those ripe lips, something that sent shivers down Victoria's spine. "Nothing."

The fact that this wild-haired, fiery-spirited beauty had experienced something so blood-chilling that she could not bear to speak of it made her shake for a moment. It was something that bled with mystique and pure pain.

"I'm sorry," Rose said, stronger this time, sitting up straight. "It was just a nightmare. That's it. Just a nightmare." Rose knew that she was trying to convince herself just as much as she was trying to convince Victoria. "Must have been caused by cold feet while I slept." A harsh, fake, bitter laugh left from her, and it was not hers, and they both knew it.

Rose stood, her back straight again, and righted the chair. "I slept so late – I don't know how I did it! I was so nervous falling asleep."

Victoria nodded and stood herself. For a moment she simply stared into space, then she twisted her hair up like she had been trying to and the brown waves were finished into an elegant up do. "Yes, it is late . . ." The conversation itself wasn't real, just a figment of their imaginations, skirting around the real issues.

"Why don't we get you ready? Your wedding is to be at sundown, or so that handsome fiancé of yours said. He also mentioned that you don't know anything about the whereabouts of the ceremony. Is that true?"

She maneuvered Rose to the closet and held up the white gown to her friend's figure, her mind lost in how lovely this young lady would look. She was so consumed that she was startled by Rose's, "No, I have no idea. The thought just struck me this morning. I'm so dense not to have wondered earlier."

Rose hated how she couldn't rid herself of the accent that had flourished her words all of her life, or the vocabulary and the proper pronunciation that her mother had enforced upon her so strictly. It made her "stick out like a sore thumb," or so Jack said.

"No, no, Rose. I think that's romantic!" Victoria argued, trying to rid herself of the woman Rose had been moments earlier with phantoms dancing in her rich green irises.

Rose shrugged daintily, if one could do such a thing. She took the gown from Victoria, allowing the cool, silky fabric to ripple over her hands. The terror that iced in her throat at seeing this visible symbol of marriage vanished all of the sudden, without reason or warning, and such anticipation was inside of her that she could not stand it.

She needed Jack right this moment.

"Will you excuse me Victoria?" She asked timidly, her eyes still in a land of the lost, her heart in a place that was not here, in a body that was not her own. How terribly it hurt.

"Hm?" Victoria was preoccupied with thoughts of her own wedding, a wedding she knew that had structured a marriage that was wonderful . . . but not without faults. She had believed that all marriages had their faults, but this couple could make an exception. It did her good to see two people so in love as they were. It was obvious that it was killing Rose to be away from Jack – her haunted irises spoke of murder. But every time she mentioned his name, they would clear just for a minute.

"I have to change," Rose urged, opening her bedroom door wider and shooing Victoria out into the hallway. Victoria did not have much time to react and before she could mouth a word the door was shut in her face.

Oh well. It would be a trying day.

On the other side of the door, Rose easily peeled her nightclothes from her body and stepped into her wedding dress. She was used to garments that were nearly impossible to get on, and this didn't faze her in the least. A perfect column of pearl-colored buttons on her back were very hard to do, but she did them anyway. Each button seemed like a step further away from the person she had been throughout her childhood and then on throughout her whole life, and when her graceful fingers closed them, she felt as if she was sealing another passageway out of this route she had chosen, the path that Jack was taking her down.

She knew that it was what she wanted, what _they_ wanted, but she still had a hard time realizing that she was turning her back on everything she had ever believed in. It wasn't supposed to hurt and she wasn't supposed to have any regrets, and she didn't, no! It was just that in that second she had to lock away the little part of her that was still dreaming of a father's redemption, of a child that thought her life was perfect, of herself ages ago. The smiles and laughter had faded in that hallway she dreamt of though, and the parlor was dusty and the piano out of tune from years of neglect. Everything else had moved on, and now it was her turn, so in a little pocket of her heart she hid the Jonathan DeWitt-Bukater she had known during his life, the jolly, earnest man who had thought there was good in everyone and peace during everything. _Oh Papa,_ she silently despaired, trying to keep the other side of that man out – the side drowning in an addiction, the side gambling with obsession.

Her long hair cascaded down her shoulders when she let it fly from the tie that was holding it prisoner. When she gazed in the mirror, she was different then she'd expected herself to look.

She was happy.

Whenever she thought of her father, this inevitable gloom would cast its sinister shadow over her very being, but now she sparkled. Green eyes bathed with flecks of blue shone like colored sunset splashes and her rich, ripe, ruby lips were full and smiling. Something about everything put together made her look absolutely stunningly ecstatic and she couldn't hide her delight.

"Alright, I'm dressed now," she called through that hideous door, smoothing the fabric over her figure and trying to find the person that she really was under all the white. She tried and tried until she realized something – this _was_ who she was – Jack Dawson's bride!

The moment Victoria walked in, her breath caught in her throat. Where Rose had been stood an angel – an angel that was shimmering with joy and expectations that Victoria didn't have names for. Something too deep, too amazing, too full of destiny was surrounding Rose like a halo, and as much as Victoria attempted to find out what it was, she couldn't. The stun left her babbling.

"We have to do your hair – oh you look so lovely! My dear, what do you want done? We can wrap it up with a ribbon or braid those synthetic pearls in or –"

Rose smiled, a real, genuine smile, the first in at least twenty-four hours. "Jack likes it down," she murmured, in rapt conversation with memories that surrounded her like a smoky, dense, curtain of fog.

Victoria did not disagree. There was something wild and untamed and free about Rose when she had her hair down. So instead she pushed Rose into her vanity chair and worked to take out the knots that Rose had created by tossing and turning all night. It didn't take much and in seconds Victoria had modeled a goddess.

"We should start to make plans for how we're going to get you to the place Jack wants you in, Rose. Tom just stopped by while you were changing and told me where – you'll love it! You should be at this mysterious place by six-thirty and it'll be grand! For now, you just sit back and relax and we'll do one last touch up before you leave."

Victoria seemed like a little girl, so excited, that Rose just giggled and, nodding, pulled a book from inside her vanity. After her friend had spun around and Rose heard her skirts swoosh from the room, she opened the anciently bound script, the spine crackling from age. She had found it at a sale at the local bookstore and when she saw the title – "_Shakespeare's Most Famous Works_" – she couldn't resist paying the nickel they wanted for it. Inside she had found things that made her heart soar; things like "_Romeo and Juliet_," "_Hamlet_," "_Cleopatra_," and "_Midsummer Night's Dream_." Rose had always been crazy about Shakespeare. She loved plays. She could remember being really young, not more than eight, and sitting on her father's lap and silently reading these works along with his big booming voice while her mother sat, pleasantly listening and writing out invitations to socials and parties or practicing knitting. Those had been happy times, times that she had felt safe.

It was like flashing back into the past every time she saw that furtive name, William Shakespeare. Often she and Jonathan had attempted to sort out reality from mystique about that man, and they had failed. But, oh my, it had been fun!

Now, she flipped through the introduction to "_Romeo and Juliet_" and came upon, "_Act 1,Scene 1_." She fell back onto her bed and sat cross-legged over the covers. She was hopeless for this kind of romance, always had been. The fact that the romance she and Jack shared was so similar to the tales she loved to read made her blush furiously. She couldn't concentrate, even on her favorite story, because she was enraptured with thoughts of her wedding that would take place later in the day.

It was hopeless. She didn't even notice when she closed her book. She was too deep in thoughts to realize that she had walked over to her closet, and too lost in yesterdays to wake up and see that she had taken one of Jack's shirts from a shelf and pressed it to her face.

She missed him.

"Aw, Jack, Victoria said that Rose is in quite a state. It seems that she misses you so and is in tears half the time," Tom stated as he hung his coat on the rack and slapped dust out of his top hat. "She can't bear to be apart from you."  
Jack's face contorted into a maze of pain and understanding, because he had felt the same way. His heart pounded louder with each breath, thinking that maybe they should have stayed together the night before their wedding. Thinking that they didn't need to follow tradition, thinking that they already had broken every custom that was set in their path.

"She's . . . she's right scary when it comes to separation," he muttered, his eyelids flickering heavily as he remembered . . . remembered when separation meant life and death just a few short months ago. "I'm the same way though, I reckon. I'm nearly outta my mind, waitin' for the ceremony."

Charlie had lent him a bathrobe to wear while Tom took his clothes to the cleaners, forcefully demanding that if Jack had to wear these "threadbare rags" then they might as well be clean. Jack had tried to explain that Rose wanted him to wear them for the symbolism; it wasn't that he couldn't scrape together some pennies to rent a suit. Well, maybe it was, but that wasn't the real reason. It was to no use though because he couldn't fully explain it without revealing his past.

Tom had explained, to Charlie's and Jack's amusement, the look on the cleaner's face when she had seen what she was being asked to wash. The way she had crinkled up her nose and shook her head had been, in Mr. Benova's words, priceless. But praise be, he had returned with Jack's shirt (a new one that Rose had bought and was a deep brownish burgundy, much like the one he had owned on _Titanic – _he figured shirts didn't come in a lot of variety) as fresh as it could get and his trousers as soft as the woman could manage.

Now, Jack had just started to change and was only in his pants, with his suspenders hanging loosely from his waist and down his thighs. Usually when he walked around the apartment like this for just two seconds, a warm little form would press against his and ripe rosebud lips would probe his own. Feeling a lump rise in his throat, he grabbed his limp shirt and yanked it over his head. The clock chimed on the wall – it was three. Tom had left at nearly one. He had been gone an awful long time. Suspicious, Jack eyed the bundle in his new friend's hands.

"No, no, it's nothing Jack," Tom said hurriedly. "Just a present for Victoria. That's all."

Jack shrugged. Damn today! His wedding couldn't get here fast enough. For some nigh unexplainable reason, he _had_ to be near his Rose right this very second.

He couldn't be.

It was almost as though another life form had suddenly inhabited Rose's body. She looked magnificent – but she looked the same as she always had since she met Jack. Her deep emerald eyes, flecked with blue like bits of morning dew, sparkled with anticipation for roads that lay ahead and with love for the man that stood beside. Her hair tumbled down her back in all its wild beauty, each fiery curl sleek and silky and cool. Her cheeks glowed and her skin seemed to vibrate with excitement.

Something was different though. It was not just her wedding gown that perfectly enfolded her petite frame, outlining every luscious curve for a viewer's eye but mysteriously not showing nearly everything, each shape disappearing into the glorious folds of white that accented her complexion with reckless abandon. It was not just that her delicate white shoes of faux silk the color of snow made her seem almost like a fairy, or an angel. It was not just that she looked like a bride.

There was a different presence inside of her, a presence that she could only account to maybe the spirit of marriage, the binding of her soul with someone else's, a presence that brought her sheer joy. It was a freeing of a sort of already free thing inside of her, and it was confusing.

"Rose, it's almost five! We have to get going! Tom just brought over the flowers, but – oh my." Victoria had never seen a creature so beautiful, so lovely, so perfectly representing blossoming dawn as she did right then. Her breath was torn from her lungs by the gorgeousness of the Rose in front of her.

"Oh . . . Rose . . . you look . . ." Victoria groped for a word worthy enough to be of use for this girl, and it was useless. "Splendid," she finished pathetically in a whisper. She had come in expecting to have to fix something or straighten something, but there was nothing to repair.

A horn bleeped outside and she knew that the cab Jack had hired was here to take them to whatever place he had chosen. Rose knew too, and she murmured a "thank you" before glided elegantly out the door, as elegant as she always ways with a regal posture that commanded attention. Victoria grabbed the flowers that her husband had brought and followed her, smoothing the lavender dress she had chosen for the wedding.

The driver of the cab held the door open as a young woman raced out of her apartment. He was in a hurry, because the man who had paid him had told him to be there at promptly six-fifteen, and they were late by at least five minutes, which meant a cut in his pay. He had been tapping his booted foot impatiently against the roadside.

But all of his worrying stopped when he saw the fiery-haired mistress seemingly float to him. It was like a dream. She glowed with happiness for the wedding that was close at hand, and it reminded him of some vision from heaven with her clothed in that amazing white. She was an angel, and he knew it.

"Oh, sir, I appreciate your assistance," she said breathlessly as she slipped into the cab while he stared at her, awestruck. There was something about her that screamed royalty, and something about her that screamed miracle.

Yet another scream pierced the air. "Do hurry up, my good man!" A second lady trouped from the house, her brown waves pinned slightly back and a bouquet clutched in her ringed hands. She climbed into the other side, and he hurried to his post in the front seat.

Rose's heart lurched just as much as the automobile when the engine finally propelled them forward. She was so excited that she couldn't contain herself. The prospect of seeing Jack again alone was enough to make her head spin, and the fact that she was going to be married in an hour made her spirit soar. Her insides shook and her lips buzzed. It had been so long, it seemed, since that fateful night. Even upon recalling it, she shivered violently and ice seeped through her skin. The blackness, the cold, and most of all, the pain and terror, was still as plain to her as it had ever been.

What scared her most now was that she felt ghosts. They always seemed to be dancing just out of her reach, in that grey area she couldn't quite see and couldn't quite ignore. They were as tangible to her as the air she breathed, but so unreal that they seemed foggy and distant.

That hideous memory would never leave her mind and she didn't pretend that it ever would. She didn't want it to. Rose was a forever changed woman. But the point was, she had someone to share the hurt with, someone she loved.

Bricks flashed by from buildings as they made their way to who knew where.

An hour and fifteen minutes later, after weaving through the traffic of the city, they came to a halt a good twenty miles from the heart of New York. The skyline, pathetic as it was, was far off in the distance and gentle hills carried the breeze forward.

When the cab stopped, Rose knew that this was where she was meant to have her wedding. It was surefire knowledge as deep and burning as a white hot knife. It was the same knowledge that had hit her when she had first saw Jack, even though she had chosen to ignore it. It was the same knowledge that had nearly killed her on April 14, 1912. And this time, it filled her with this feeling of fate – fate that made her own life seem so insignificant until she was no longer just one person, but one from two.

The sun was sinking bloodily over the horizon, setting the clouds on fire with a pallet of warm colors, colors as warm as her heart. Finally, she felt as if the disaster was thoroughly thawed from her. Expectations fell away and time seemed to stop as the entire world pulsed with her soul.

"Rose, Jack's already around the bluff on the corner so he can't see you right now. Let's get this started! You're about to be married!"

Rose zoned out from Victoria's words the moment she told her where Jack was. He was so close! Their time was so close! Everything that had seemed impossible was now within her reach and it terrified her.

That's when she noticed that, down a steep cliff, in perfect harmony, lapped the Atlantic Ocean. Blue-green-grey waves rolled over the rocky shoreline and then were pulled back into the water, for all things that were subjected to that mighty force must eventually return, like her heart. The peace that they symbolized shocked her, for she could only remember that water as black and terrible and evil.

When she had woken this morning, she had believed with all her heart and soul that she wanted Jack to the capability of her emotions. But right now, that sea made something inside of her live again. She had not felt this desire for him since she had believed him to be dead. It was killing her on the inside, gnawing at her soul and eating at her heart. She ached, physically burned, with the need for him to hold her. She was instantly reminded if the beginning of this chapter in her life, of when she had loved him and not been able to get to him, and she prayed that now it truly was different.

The grey and brown wrinkles of wet sand, just a few feet long, melted with the rock-covered walls of the hill and where the met, the dying sun painted them a beautifully intense orange. She felt as though she had stepped into a painting, a painting that told of her past. The ocean went on, growing gold at the edges of the horizons. She could not see the other shore and she knew what lay between where she was standing and where land was on the opposite side. _Titanic_ did. The very thought of the name sent shivers down her spine but they weren't all shivers of horror. Some were shivers of love and some were shivers of hate and some were shivers of devotion, but all were shivers of the Atlantic. So there she stood, on one shore of her life, and she saw the great expanse until the other shore, and she knew that the crossing would be a magical one.

Victoria was plucking at her gown, straightening one crease, than creating another, then smoothing it. She stood to attempt to fix Rose's hair, but that was impossible. The light sea breeze had transformed it into a pool of copper tresses and she had never seen something as beautiful.

Rose herself could not help but let her emerald eyes wander past another cab and to the bluff, where Victoria was hurrying to help her husband and another man, had Tom called him Charlie?, spread flower petals for the bride's path. She knew who was on the other side of that path. The half of her heart that was in her chest slammed brutally against her ribs, and the other half was in someone else.

Jack stood uneasily, unsure of what to do. There was a small bend in the rock and he knew, even though no one had told him, that Rose was standing just beyond that bend. He could feel her. Hell, he could almost smell her. The wind was carrying her forbidden, sultry, mysterious scent, fresh and crisp, until it surrounded him with the essence of the goddess of seduction. It was enough to drive him mad with want and crazy with impatience.

They'd been married for a long time, spiritually at least. Maybe since before he was born, he didn't know. One thing he did know was that the actual ceremony was only to make it official because the bonding of their spirits had happened in the past. He closed his eyes, facing the ocean and turning so that his side was facing the rose-strewn trail that the real Rose would soon bless with her presence. In the secret of dark behind his eyelids, he flashed back in time. For once, he had control over it. He chose the place, he chose the moment, and he chose the reason. With sheer will he was back in the cargo hold, sweat clinging to their flesh that had become one. He could feel the softness of her breath and her lips and see that painful joy and dangerous adoration dancing little paths in her hurt and love streaked irises, covered in green. He could hear her heart beating against his, or maybe it was his, he wasn't sure. He knew that, once they were together, they'd never really be apart again. He knew it and was scared to believe it.

Lord, the salty ocean smell washed over him all at once, and with it another horde of memories fell like a downpour. The voice of a stocky, gentle man called, _"I can see the Statue of Liberty already! . . . Very small of course . . ." _He heard someone, someone that he knew was him, someone he was regaining, shout and faintly he made out _"I'm the king of the world!" _He could feel Fabri's shirt whipping with the wind against his knees and it was almost like his best friend had really never been gone. It was almost like the past few months had never happened.

But Jack wouldn't give up those past few months for anything in any world, including Fabrizio de Rossi. An awesome sadness overwhelmed him and he felt like a traitor, he felt guilty that he loved a girl with all of his heart and had none left for his friend. But somehow, he knew that the same Fabri who stayed by his side for years, the same Fabri who tried to help him find a boat, the same Fabri that danced and stomped in the third class general room, the same Fabri that welcomed and accepted Rose as his sister – he knew the same Fabri understood. The guilt was lifted and underneath was nothing but pure excitement for the next few minutes.

He reckoned it was time. Charlie grabbed Jack and spun him around to face the make-shift aisle. He and Tom flanked the groom on either side, moving back to make room for the bride. It seemed as if all of creation waited and groaned with the anticipation that everyone was electrified with. The waves crashed with more eagerness, sending fine white spray swirling to the bloody sky. The entire ocean smoothed itself as if providing a looking glass for the inhabitants of the citizens beneath it. Even the tangled grass seemed to tilt for a better view. The Earth held its collective breath and Jack was frozen. He was completely unaware of his plain, pathetic clothing that he had been urged to wear. He didn't notice one of his boots was untied, and he couldn't tell that strands of golden hair were hanging in his face. Something he hadn't felt lately surged through him – nervousness mixed with ecstasy. His entire body buzzed and didn't move at the same time.

_Where was she?_

The minister had taken his place beyond where those who were to be wed would stand. His Bible was split open across his palms. The men on either side were positioned, one with the rings – both of them silver, with Rose's sprinkled in tiny, but extraordinary, diamonds and Jack's a plain band. There hadn't been money for anything else. Rose hadn't seen them yet but only wore her engagement ring. And Jack had yet to even see her dress! His exhilaration reached the breaking point and he didn't feel like he could wait any longer. It had been hours since he had first started waiting – hadn't it? Or had it?

Colors started spinning and then righted themselves. His whole mind had turned to water, and he wasn't functioning right. His chest hurt. His arms hurt. Everything hurt.

Just when he felt like he was about to burst and throw himself off the ledge, there was a rustling from the other side of the bluff. Long shadows were thrust over the rolling flowers and grass. His jaw dropped.

Suddenly she was just there.

He knew it was her, but at the same time he wanted to cower because he also knew the very realm of heaven was there with her. At first the beauty of her was so shocking that he didn't see it. It was blinding. Then, without warning, he did.

She was shining, glowing, radiating relief. An unknown bond strengthened between them, making them magnetic, as she continued toward him. _She was coming toward him_. An angel was coming toward him.

Her gown was magnificent, cloaking her in its purity of white, its majesty of memories. It accented her skin perfectly, skin tinged with excitement and creamy as lotion. She wasn't walking; she was floating, like on clouds. He could almost see her heavenly host following her, leading the way. Something about the way she looked made all of the stars fall to Earth and the sunset seem dull as she soaked in all of their wonder as her own. She was familiar, and yet so far away. Her body steamed with his past and smoked with other-worldly treasures. Wine-red roses were pressed to her chest, sending off a sweet fragrance and a heady portrait of gorgeousness. The sweeping, elegant twists of fire-painted hair that he loved were given a life of their own by the tumultuous racing of cool air. The curls were bathed in wildness and beauty and they reminded him of something that hurt him terribly and made him feel wonderful at the same time.

But it was her face that made him like jam. Her mouth was opened slightly, breaths being sucked in forcefully through the ruby-red lips so that her breasts heaved. Her eyes never once left his the entire time, and the desire that was pressed in them made him shiver with happiness. The green of them pierced his heart and made a single tear slide down his face, because she had trusted him, and he had, if barely, saved her. He had finally saved her. She was his for the rest of eternity and nothing could ever change that. She was not half Cal's or half pain's, but all his. She was willingly offering every single particle of her being to him.

Somehow, in some way, they had survived everything that it seemed God could give them. They had survived it together. Through fire and ice and smoke and torture, they had lasted. It had all worked together to create this one moment. She had never seemed so beautiful to him, even though he knew that she was always just as beautiful. His nervous fidgeting ceased and he couldn't help but smile, absolutely awestruck with love. Their love.

Rose knew that, if Jack hadn't been keeping his eyes locked with hers, she wouldn't have been able to make it. Her entire insides were like mush, and her body was barely even working. It was everything she had dreamed of as a little girl; maybe without the pageants and princesses and kings and queens and cathedrals, but her prince charming was right there. No, he wasn't dressed in shining armor. To the contrary, he was in his regular beaten trousers, a plain, cheap, brown-reddish shirt, and his rough, ancient boots. But he was as lovely to her as anyone had ever been, with his golden hair sweeping in his eyes, eyes that she was completely lost in. His irises shone, if possible, with even more blue than they ever had, with truth and redemption that soaked her in like the morning tide. So many times, many, many, times, those eyes had been her lone source of comfort, her sole fountain of hope. The bare life that sparkled in them had intrigued her since she had first seen their owner. She had read her entire life story, open and flawlessly written, in the pupils as black as a raven. Now there was something else there, something mysterious and wonderful.

The waning sunlight lathered his head with a copperish glow, setting his finely chiseled face afire with as much ravaging burning as her heart. Through it all, the sea sounded silently and at the same time roared beneath them, bringing in yesterdays and taking them out. The aisle had never been so long to any bride on the face of the planet. Her hands trembled and the deep red roses shook against her bosom. She could barely breathe.

It wasn't that her parents were there, it was that they were and then they weren't. Her imagination produced a heart-stopping picture of her father escorting her down the path, but no one was. She had already been given away a long time ago. The father she saw was not the one she knew he had been. He was not hiding from himself beneath a false pretense of promises and dreams. He truly loved her –and perhaps he really had? He was actually happy for her, she could feel it. For a second she didn't hate him. For a second she was able to love him again, love him in a childish innocence that had been stolen from her. She expected this adoration to go away, for this father to vanish like he had all the other times. He stayed. It was a shock for her to think that maybe he cared about her, and it was a shock for her to think that he hadn't wanted to hurt her.

Then there was her mother . . . and this was a different Ruth too. She wasn't the hard, bitter, self-obsessed woman that she had been when Rose had last seen her. Rose had thought that this impression of the one whom had born her would stay for her entire life, but another point was present right now. It was the woman she used to be; content, healthy, loving, bright. It was the woman that Rose had prided herself in being able to call "Mother," and it was the woman that Rose had looked up to and wanted so terribly to be.

The satisfaction she finally was able to feel with those who had brought her into this world made her finally at peace with her past. It might not have lasted long, but it lasted long enough for her to get married.

There was another manifestation entirely – one that warmed her blood and chilled her mind. This was a multi-souled one, one of many origins and many beginnings, but the same end. They all molded together and encased bride and groom in a world that was completely theirs and the phantoms.

It seemed an unbearably long time, an eternity maybe, until Jack held out his hand for Rose to take. The hand quivered in the dusk air, quivering with anticipation and fear at once. It was carved with dignity and tenderness. Even the calluses from years of hard work and passionate drawing could not dim the gentle way with which his hand reached for his love's.

She stopped inches from the hand, her walk abruptly ceasing and her eyes glimmering hope, steadily radiating faith. This was the only person on earth that she was devoted to with every particle of her being. Not once had she truly wanted to desert him and not once had she been able to stop loving him. The fervor she felt for him was addictive, and so was his touch.

She made the most important decision of her life. She took his hand.

"Dearly beloved, we gather here today . . ."

The two young lovers, surrounded by spirits that they loved and surrounded by the passion that was totally theirs, did not hear the priest as he continued the rhythmic speech that he used for every wedding. Something was different about today, though. Something that shone in their eyes and beat in their hearts. Something that he felt in the air around them. The metallic scent of fear and the sweet fragrance of determination.

It made him tremble to think of two people that were so wrapped up into each other. Usually, he could guess how long these marriages would last. He had done tons of ceremonies throughout his life like these – immature people still drunk on the majesty of life, not knowing the reality, and making these decisions much too quickly. Usually, he knew that they would be man and wife for no more than four months. But right now, he had that unnerving feeling that this Jack and this Rose would stay true to each other through their years, through death, and for the eternity afterwards.

His husky voice quoted from one of Paul's letters in the Scriptures, "Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast. It is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking. It is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres."

Jack's strong hands gripped Rose's, millions of thoughts running through his head. _This was his destiny_ . . . his life had been working towards this point the entire time. From birth, to his parent's death, to Fabri, to _Titanic_, the world had been preparing him to make enough room inside for this girl.

He looked at her, and his heart strained. The amount of love that he felt was amazing. It was downright impossible. It pulled at him and weighed at him and he wouldn't have it any other way. When he closed his eyes for a second, and thought of her, he thought of the Rose he had seen only once. The Rose that was beyond terrified, the Rose that was past hope. The Rose that was lying on a door that was lying on an ocean that was trying to kill them. He could see her hair, brittle and frozen as her soul. The stars were behind her, painting a black sky like white flowers.

But now she was alive again, and happy. She bit her lip in nervousness, and he saw all of her body signs of anticipation. He brushed his mouth against her soft hand.

Rose smiled weakly at Jack. She felt like she could pass out. This was it. After years of pain, this was where a new life was officially beginning. He knees knocked together and her heart clamored so loud she knew everyone could here it. Victoria was crying by Rose's side, but Rose didn't notice. She was too lost in her lover's eyes that spoke to her of trust.

"Rose Grace Elizabeth Bukater, do you wish to take this man, Jack William Dawson, to be your lawful wedded husband, to love, to honor, to hold, to cherish, and to obey, in sickness and in health, in riches and in poverty, for better or worse, as long as you may live?"

She shivered. For safety's sake, they had left DeWitt out of her name. No one would be able to track her down through marriage records, but the marriage would still be lawful because, since her father died, her mother had the option to switch back to her maiden name. She hadn't, but that didn't mean Rose couldn't.

This was not on her mind right now. The future was. In that split second before she answered, her soul raced ahead of her to the decades that would lie along the way to the rest of her life. Children, growing and witnessing the love their parents shared, grandchildren, great-grandchildren . . . Santa Monica, maybe even Chippewa Falls someday . . .

But always Jack. Always and only Jack.

Then her heart traveled to her middle, where a product of their passion was already growing. Their life together was already growing.

Tears clouded her eyes as she fell back to _Titanic_ and the struggle for survival. Somehow, she had known she was going to die. She hadn't. He hadn't. Surely that meant something – anything! The pain slicing through every fiber of her body, the fogginess of mind. The only thing keeping her alive being the only thing she was keeping alive – one man. The terrifying realization that perhaps, if love was separable, they were separable. Then the blackness . . . the blackness that had lasted for days and salted bitter, bitter hatred towards herself. Towards humanity. Towards the ocean. Towards the world.

But it hadn't all been lost. Her new self, the one that Jack had blossomed, had not been lost. He had fought back, and watered it and nurtured it and now she was his, for this life and all the lives after. She owed herself to him, and was more than willing to give it.

" . . . I do . . ."

Those two words were her freedom and her salvation. They forever cut the chains that bonded her to her past. She was a completely new woman now. Rose DeWitt-Bukater was trapped in yesterdays, and now Rose Dawson began to emerge, beautiful and strong. Joy flooded her heart like a raging river, for the man that gave her slender hand a squeeze and wiped a trembling tear with a calloused finger was the love of her life, the savior of her world, the gardener of her soul. He was not the evil demon that her previous fiancée had been, and he was not trying to take life out of her. She did not cower in fear of his footsteps, and was not sentencing herself to death. No, this was Jack. Her Jack, the only person that had looked closely enough and saw the real her, and fallen in love with her, not her worldly possessions or her beauty.

A soft smile, speaking tirades of powerful emotions, curved her lips.

"And Jack William Dawson, do you wish to take this woman, Rose Grace Elizabeth Bukater, to love, to honor, to hold, to cherish, and support, in sickness and in health, in riches and in poverty, for better or worse, as long as you may live?"

Jack had no second thoughts. There were no regrets and no wishes to spare himself of the torture he had been subject to. For once, he did not have the slightest desire to turn back the hands of time. Oh yes, he remembered, but he would never, never, trade his pain for a life without Rose.

You see, when he looked at her, her light dazzled the darkness which he had become subject to. He was not reminded of death or Hell or hurt, or even Heaven, but of love – timeless, ancient love. When he gazed upon her, he did not feel anguish in memories, but rather hope for today and tomorrow. He couldn't give that up. He just couldn't.

He thought of his past – of growing up smothered by everyday rural life, of his parents' devotion to each other whirling away in clouds of ash and smoke, and of the conviction he had felt that it was his fault. He moved from one tragedy to another – this time to a kind, gentle-hearted Italian and a rough, outspoken Irishman. He moved from the devouring fire of his childhood to the icy doom of his manhood. But he was no longer guilty, no longer afraid.

It was over now, and he had been given this lovely woman for the rest of his days. It was insanity to ever imagine that he would want anything else.

"I do."

They were bonded, strongly, suddenly. They were each other. With the Atlantic that had torn and built their lives crashing beside them and the sunset smiling its red rays upon them, their hearts officially molded into one. No disaster, no power, no person – not even Hell or the Devil himself, could ever break a connection so pure and true. A Jack and his Rose had forever given themselves to the other.

"I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride."

None of the witnesses present that day had ever seen something so divine and haunting on their tiny planet that revolved around the Sun. Almost as if the were unworthy to witness something so heavenly it was like angels had fallen from the sky themselves, they broke into tears.

Destiny and fate gave them the moment that Jack and Rose had deserved since the second that had met. The moment they had fought for, lived for, almost been crushed for. They had prevailed through things inhumanly possible to prevail through, and this was their reward. There was a belief that dawned on the world that day – pain brings joy.

He pulled her to him and for a moment just looked lovingly into her eyes with his, eyes that screamed that they had made it, that it was alright now. She returned his gaze with hope and adoration and faith, and they both collided to create an even stronger trust.

Then, as if they were unable to wait even a fraction of a minute longer, he desperately pressed his lips to hers, and the soft kiss of promise began to open with the fragrance of a delicate flower, sweet and unquestionably eternal. His hands reached up to cup her face, and their mouths urged themselves onwards into a lovely and sacred dance, the dance of forever finally being there.

It was almost as if they were not really in New York, but were rather hundreds of miles away and two miles beneath the blackening sea, back where they belonged, in the presences of ghosts forgotten and courage betrayed. But there was something else their now – an unexplainable happiness and joy, a love that could not be ever penetrated, and a harmonious stream of peace that would flow past Time.

Each wave the slipped onto the sand below the cliff-face whispered words of encouragement and victory. These beautiful poetic lines came from those that were not really dead but just moved on to another place, and were sent to the man and the woman that were not truly on the bluff at all, but rather in a world open to only two among the living, and it was only the two of them. The two of them that were in a close circle of friends that were no longer known by their names, names like Fabrizio and Tommy and Cora, but only as phantoms.


	4. Beginnings and Endings

**Yup. Another chapter. A shorter one though . . . **

There was no money for a honeymoon. They both knew that, and they both accepted that. People like them did not have the extra time or finances to whisk themselves away to an exotic island or Europe or even another part of the country. They hadn't even talked about the possibility – it was a flat-out no and it wasn't questioned.

However, under the circumstances, it was quite affordable and easy to turn their little tiny flat in the dirtiest, darkest reaches of New York City into a cozy, forbidden, secluded place of their own.

Jack unlocked the door with one of two bent, tarnished keys and kicked it open. Then, in the tradition of so many other couples before them, he turned to Rose with a twinkle in his eye that reflected the lonely crescent of the moon above him.

She knew what he was going to do, and she shook her head, her scarlet curls framing her shadowed face with their wild twisting. She backed up, and she only had time for her mouth to open in a round "Oh!" of defiance before Jack's arms, rippled with muscles, scooped her off the floor. Her wedding dress billowed around them and it seemed the only sound in the whole world was her delighted laughter.

Before he carried her over the threshold to their humble abode, she laced her arms around his neck and kissed him. It was not one of her soft, meek kisses. It was not a usual kiss. This kiss was like . . . there were hardly words to describe. Lightning striking the ground and the fire devouring the prairies, hurricanes smashing into the coasts, fireworks exploding in the sky, a ship striking an iceberg . . .

Powerfully and sensually she drew him into her world like a magnet, a world that was still on the bluff on which they had been married, a world that was not humanity's, but just theirs. A world in which they were finally safe.

He was so caught up in this new sensation that he stumbled into their apartment, pressing the door behind him, and forgot everything he had planned. He forgot the wine, he forgot the candles, he forgot the speech he was going to give. He forgot everything, like he always did. It would be his undoing, he knew, what this girl could do to him.

He leaned down and put his lips next to her ears, his words hot and steamy against her skin. "Well, Mrs. Dawson, what did you think about that little place I chose?"

She looked at him with eyes that sparkled with tears. It was suddenly deadly serious in the little room. She pressed her mouth together to hold back a sob, and then it all came tumbling forth. "Oh my God, it was perfect and lovely and amazing and I can't believe I . . . no, not I, _we_, are . . . are . . . Oh, Dawson. You saved me again. What an amazing record you have."

She smiled softly and there was no need for any more words. There never really had been anyway. Jack could see what she saw and feel what she felt without her muttering a sound. Just stares inhabited the room, breathtakingly awestruck grateful stares. Then the kisses and the ragged breathing and the passionate sighs that consumed their destiny were the only things that could be heard.

They had been waiting since the moment they laid eyes on each other for this moment. It had seemed so simple before, Rose thought, her mind flashing back to the night of the sinking. Those few short seconds, hours, between her redemption and her sentence, between the flying and iceberg, had looked filled with possibilities. She had thought it would be so easy. She would tell Cal no, she would tell her mother no, and she would tell Jack yes. There was no thought behind it.

But since when had her life ever been pleasantly painless? Of course, it had not started that night. Her fantastic dreams had been replaced by a nightmare, a nightmare that stained the rest of her life. She remembered being a little girl, sighing with longing when she thought of true love. She had believed in it for a long time, hadn't that been what her mother and father possessed? When her father had died, she still managed to keep that belief alive. But then Caledon Hockley had come like some sort of treacherous storm, whirling and scattering and destructing and terrible. He had been unstoppable.

Except for Jack of course. Jack had stopped him. Jack had given her true love. Jack could do anything.

Suddenly it was intoxicating being this close to him. She felt shy, and it was confusing. She never felt shy in front of him before. Intimidated, yes. Amazed, of course. But shy? Never.

Her eyelids fluttered and she turned her gaze from him to their intertwined hands. His were strong and looked like they had been carved from a heavenly stone. They looked so solid and firm, and they gently took hers, his rough fingers moving in the spaces of her own fingers, smoothing her creamy skin.

He sensed the sudden awkwardness about her, and couldn't think of why it would be there. What was wrong? Had he done something, or said something? He racked his brain furiously, trying to remember, but suddenly all of his old passionate feelings came back because she had raised her face to his, pulled him close to her, and kissed him. It was a soft kiss, a light kiss. A kiss full of adoration and gratefulness. A kiss that ushered in a long night of more demanding kisses, more breathless kisses, more hopes, more dreams, and more relief. Relief that Jack and his Rose had finally reached some sort of mark in their life together.

Because for the first time, they were safe in their own little world. Maybe it was just for a night. Maybe their bliss wouldn't last forever. But as Jack looked into Rose's eyes, eyes that were smoky with desire as they made love, he knew their love would stand the test of time. And he was very glad.

The days melted into weeks, and the weeks melted into months. Time flashed by in a dazzling portrait of memories, memories of a happy couple early in their marriage. And they truly were happy. They were still blinded by the intense glow of their passion. Blind to everything else.

Eventually the leaves began to fade and curl and wither and die, putting up one last fantastic display before the long dreadfulness of winter. Their brilliance could be seen in orange glimpses drifting lazily to sidewalks or yellow piles in the streets or red streaks on the roofs. The air became cold, warning of the season about to come.

Rose was by now well into her pregnancy. Her stomach was perfectly round and she had to go to the local thrift shop for maternity clothes to fit her ever-growing middle. Often, if she was going to be around the house, she simply wore one of Jack's old shirts with a billowy skirt. She was beginning to feel like a cousin of a balloon, but at the same time she was overjoyed. She was going to be a mother!

One evening in early November, Jack was making his way home from work. He hadn't been feeling well lately. Maybe it was because the hours were driving him crazy, or maybe it was because he hadn't been able to sleep. Whatever the reason, he was drained: physically, emotionally, and mentally. It was all he could do to make it to the apartment door. Uneasily, he unlocked it. He hated this place. He wanted so terribly to take Rose out west. Unfortunately, they didn't have quite enough money yet, and perhaps most importantly, he tenderly remembered that his wife was in no condition to travel. Someday . . .

But he knew better. Jack Dawson knew what somedays could do to a person. He was a victim of it several times over. Those hopes and dreams that had before seemed so bright and close and amazing would dim. Their gold sheen would begin to loose its luster. And then they would move farther away, leaving a burning desire in the heart of the person who had wanted them. So to escape from that burning, that person would do the predictable thing, the "sensible" thing; one would simply take the hope or take the dream and put them up on a shelf, promising to take them back down when there was time. Or when there was money. Or when there was possibility. Or reality.

_After the baby's born_, he decided. _Once the baby's born and they're both healthy, we'll go._

He opened the door quietly and slipped inside, hanging the key on the nail in the wall. The warm burnt flickering from the fireplace was all that illuminated the tiny apartment and the peaceful crackling was all that could be heard. He silently removed his boots and, in socked feet, tiptoed to the ancient sofa that faced away from him.

Rose lay there, outstretched, her face calm and serene as she slept. A stray curl lay across her face and her slender hand was on the gentle rounding of her belly. Her lips were parted slightly and her other arm was hanging off the cushion.

He couldn't help but smile at the scene. He reminded himself for the umpteenth time that that goddess was real, and he lowered himself down on the floor near her. He pressed his forehead against hers and placed his own hand over hers.

Months before, he had not believed in true love. It had not existed. It was like a fairy tale that was frayed at the edges. There was no way for it to be real and he was not going to fall for its seducing doom. He was not going to kill himself chasing after a fantasy.

His parents had been in love, he had admitted that. But he knew that his mother had hated his father when she had met him and that his father had mercilessly teased his mother. He had called her a sniveling pigtailed brat more than once, and although it eventually bloomed into love, he had not thought it as true love, which constituted love at first sight. They had not even accepted each other at first sight. And their love was just love. It did not light off fireworks or create magic spells. It was simple.

He had guessed he had had many opportunities to create some sleazy kind of relationship, and he almost had several times. Jack was not an angel. He did live for the "making it count" motto, and he was a compassionate person. But he was still a man. He had wanted a woman before, wanted a one night stand with someone that offered to be drawn. For some reason though, he hadn't let it go beyond flirting. The moment some spindly red fingernail brushed against his forearm, it was over. He had let it go to a kiss a few times, a kiss that would have usually ushered in making out sessions followed by making love sessions, but that very second foreign lips had touched his own he had backed out.

He hadn't known why. If he didn't believe in true love, what had he been holding out for? Still, there had been something . . . something breathing into his ear that becoming one with one of those European women would be the biggest mistake in his life. He listened to that voice, even if he saw no reason to. He figured that some day in the very distant future, after he had explored every corner of the world, he would marry some girl he found agreeable and have a kid or two. He did not expect to love her.

But then that one day had come when he was on his way to America, chasing the ghosts of home and trying to gather back wisps of his broken past. There had been that single afternoon, when he had been sketching a little girl on the deck. Out of all things he could have drawn, out of all the people, Cora caught his attention. She had stood out in her innocence, trusting her father completely as he literally dangled her over the water so she could see the propellers. He had been explaining how they worked as she made motions with her tiny hands to follow the blades. She had never once questioned her safety as she was hanging over the Atlantic Ocean. Never once did a wave of fear cross her face. She was innocent. Because he wanted that, to be innocent from the horribleness of the world again, he focused on her.

He remembered being slightly annoyed as Fabrizio carried on a short conversation with some man on his right. It was unsettling. As he darkened a few lines on Cora's father's hand, he shifted his gaze briefly to meet with an Irishman that possessed curly, sandy hair and a thick Irish brogue. When this man, introduced later as Tommy, remarked something sarcastically about the dogs from first class shitting on the deck, with a double meaning of course, Jack couldn't help but throw his comment in.

But then he had seen her.

He had been trying to remind himself that he didn't believe in true love. He didn't believe in love at first sight. Lately, he had been finding it hard to believe in love in general, in destiny, in the "greater purpose."

He had been reborn though, in a split second. All of his doubts and convictions were wiped away from that one being on the deck above him, the one with the lush figure and the blood-red hair and the creamy skin turning gold from the sunlight. The one with the eyes that spoke of betrayal and hurt and terrible loneliness, but also the one with the eyes that whispered beauty and spirit.

He had never seen a person like that. It seemed as if the sky had opened and stars had fallen and waves had crashed and fate had been decided. He had fallen in love, without knowing her name or her past or the sound of her voice. He had wanted desperately to save her without knowing what to save her from and he had frantically needed to take her with him without knowing where that might be.

The fireplace began to smolder burning coals as Jack relived that memory sweetly, like he always did. That moment had been his redemption and salvation, his joy and his hope.

The irony that the same woman was here, sleeping on a couch in his apartment, her hand gently resting on a stomach that carried his child, made him smile. For a second the pounding in his head was dulled by the beauty and gratitude of the fact that Rose was really his Rose.

_Early in the morning of August 16, 1912, Jack lay in the drowsy silence of dawn and carefully outlined the contours of Rose's sleeping face. Her delicate nose, her crafted cheekbones, her curving neck. She wasn't as close to him as she usually was, and instead was curled into a peaceful position with her head sinking deep into the feather-filled pillow, facing from him._

_Today was a day that Rose most likely was sure he had forgotten, but of course he remembered. He had been counting down for a month. It was her eighteenth birthday, the first without her mother, the first without the galas and yachts and rooms of gifts. He had to make it memorable enough for her, make it better than the last seventeen. _

_Again, he found himself fighting against ghosts Rose's heart. Again, he felt this need to be better than those that had been in her life before. Again, it was competition for something he knew only he had and that the phantoms of her past had never had. He couldn't help it. Something inside of him was driving him on to make the people that had made her years painful just distant memories in light of the happiness he gave her. It was a match he couldn't win, he knew. But it was also a match he couldn't loose, because there was no one to fight with. It seemed as though he were wrestling himself, but damn it, he couldn't change it even when he tried. _

_It was a small price to pay for the miracle of Mrs. Dawson being who she was, and him being who he was, and they being together. He reached over to where she faced from him and stroked a stray red curl, fingering it offhandedly and staring off into space, thinking of nothing in particular. Just thinking._

_It was during these times that some of his most terrifying dreams would find their way into his heart. His idle mind would toy with people that he once knew or did know, situations that he had been in, memories and fears of the future. Now he looked tenderly at Rose's covered abdomen, imaging the softness of a slight round coming from her stomach._

_His child was in there. Not just any child either. His, his child he had made with his love in a time of uncertainty and eternal bliss. He remembered how he had trembled with anticipation and how nervous he had been. He had wanted to make her happy so badly, and he had thought that it was impossible. She was just too good for him. Yet somehow destiny had smiled and everything had worked and now there she was, in all her glory, right beside him._

_What if something went wrong? What if the baby wasn't healthy, or if during childbirth Rose . . ._

_He refused to even think that. He couldn't. Would God allow them both to survive a disaster such as the one they had been through and then rip them apart? Of course not. She was strong and vivacious and she would be perfectly fine._

_This fear had not entered him before. As much as he tried to shun it, he found himself gathering her in his arms and pulling her towards him as she sighed in protest. Sleepily, she murmured a complaint that he couldn't understand until she blindly felt his chest and pressed herself against him._

_She was so precious to him that he couldn't let her go, even when his arm ached from holding her so tightly for so long. Her white flannel nightgown irritated his elbow but he didn't notice. She was breathtakingly beautiful, and something inside of him tore when he saw her innocent face, the ring slipped on her slender finger, and the gentle sloped belly._

_How could he have done something like that? Even now, he felt as though he had taken advantage of that innocence. He had not been able to control himself, and he had gotten her pregnant out of wedlock, married before she was eighteen, and almost living on the streets. She had been willing to do it all, but he should have known better, he should have –_

_Then, however, something miraculous happened. Her lips curved into a sweet, soft smile and she whispered his name. "Jack . . ." She breathed lightly and he nuzzled her neck, catching the scent of rosewater._

_Lowly in his throat, as though afraid to disturb the morning silence, he began to huskily sing. "Happy birthday to you . . . happy birthday to you . . . happy birthday Rose . . . happy birthday to you . . ."  
Her eyes shot open to the size of tennis balls. Suddenly she looked very, very awake. He grinned gently, but then he saw the huge tears traveling down her face and felt her heart speed up against his skin._

_"Oh Rose, I didn't mean to make you cry . . ." He muttered, frantically wiping away the puddles of water from her cheeks and cursing himself. Had he stirred some old memory? Had he hurt her somehow?_

_"No, no . . . you . . . remembered . . . I can't believe you re . . . remembered," she sobbed, cries racking her body. His own heart went out to her without warning. What kind of childhood had this girl had, that she thought her own husband remembering her birthday was nothing short of celestial? It made him shiver and he was disgusted with her parents._

_"Of course I did. I love you," he answered back, trying desperately to calm her and make her happy. He did not know much about women, and he did not understand why she had to cry if she felt joy._

_"Oh! I love you too!" She exclaimed suddenly, throwing her arms around his neck and holding on for dear life. _

_In that moment, he freed himself from her past. He realized that she had completely left them and she was his. He understood that he was her entire life now. As he gathered her to him, he himself was crying._

_He had just gotten something. She had moved on. Her home had been where she hadn't belonged, and now she was where destiny had willed her. The sparkle of love in her eyes and the blush of happiness attested to how she was done watching the years pass by. She had made up her mind that it was time to change, and she had done it all for him. _

_His tears fell on the pillow to mix with hers, and he held her close, trying to protect her from what she had experienced before._

She stirred ever so slightly as he leaned closer and his breath tickled her neck. Automatically, even in her sleep, her lips searched hungrily for his and caught them, gently kissing him, before she fell back into the ratty cushions and blindly reached for his body.

He held her to him for a minute, relishing her warm figure against him, and whispering into her ear. He had never stopped thanking God for returning this goddess to him, because he knew how easily he could have lost her, or how easily she could have lost him.

"I'm so sorry," she murmured quietly against his chest. "I wanted to get dinner ready but I . . . I . . . I felt so sick and then . . ."

He tenderly stroked her face, his eyes so loving it made her heart break, and he muttered, "Shh . . . shh . . . I know I like to eat, but what do you take me for? Some fat old geezer who only cares about food?"

He knew he had set himself up with that one, knew it when her sleepy face suddenly awoke with a brilliant smile. He opened his mouth to say something in defense, but she pressed a finger to his lips and beat him to it. "Now that you mention it . . . you are getting a bit . . . heavy, Mr. Dawson," she teased, her eyes lit with mischievousness.

She didn't mean it at all. He was still her finely sculpted Greek god, and he still was the most handsome being she had ever seen. She couldn't help her immense attraction towards him, or the way she shivered as his chiseled hand brushed against her neck and stroked the column of her cheekbone.

She looked at him in adoration, the contentedness filling her entire soul. She remembered when, not so long ago, she had been wrapped in the chains of her ghosts and her demons with decisions she regretted. She remembered when she had built her own prison, a prison of yesterdays and of blame, and how faithfully she had kept herself locked within. Others had made her believe that she was exactly what they said she was – hopeless, with no future other than to build what would become her own doom. And she had believed them, because she had been faithful to her mother. Her mother had led her to think that, if she didn't marry Cal, they would end up on the streets. Even if Rose got the life she dreamed of and made it into the moving pictures or into plays in the grand halls and theatres of New York, it would be trading her mother's happiness for her own, and ending the life her mother loved.

She was a good daughter, such a good daughter that she was going to kill herself so that her mother would live in the world she had grown accustomed to. Not only had her mother expected it of her, but so had her father. Her father had wanted Rose to be exactly like Ruth DeWitt-Bukater, but of course Ruth DeWitt-Bukater was a very different woman when her husband was alive. Rose hadn't seen that, however, and she didn't think there was anything else to life. She thought that she was just made to be ordered around like a dumb beast, birth children, manage the household . . . She had dreamt of true love, of course, but she had also known that it wasn't in the cards for her.

As she felt Jack's broad thumbs caress her cheeks, she knew that not only had she found true love – she had found a friend for a lifetime, which was almost as valuable. He pressed his forehead against hers, and her heart started to clamber. His breath on her neck made her shake. He was so close, so very close, and the electricity that jumped from him to her sizzled the air and shocked their skin.

"Rose . . ." he whispered, his voice throaty. He entwined a free hand in her burnt red hair and his breathing became heavy. Suddenly, she lifted her head slightly and pressed her lips against his. Unlike the last kiss, this one was passionate and searing, soul-searching, fiery, and full of so much devotion that Rose began to cry. He gently kissed away her tears, leaving a trail along her forehead and nose and cheeks and chin.

"I love you," she murmured softly, choked with sobs. It was an understatement and she knew it. Because of everything that she had been through, that they had been through, she knew it went without saying. She knew he knew she loved him. But she needed to tell him.

It reminded her of the first time she had been convicted of her love for him. The icy cold had completely numbed her body, and yet it still hurt so terribly. She had even wished for death. She knew what Jesus had been feeling when He had said, "Let this cup pass from me . . ." She had just wanted to pass the pain, pass the agony. But in the hell that was bound to become her grave, she had found a pinpoint of white light, shining with beauty and purity. Those words still echoed in her dreams . . .

_"I love you, Jack . . ."_

It was obvious that was what he was thinking of too. He nodded, seemingly unable to speak. She stroked his neck and the streaked blonde strands of hair hanging in his face, tenderly gazing upon him.

"I love you," he finally managed, furiously wiping tears from his eyes.

Her heart shattered. "I know," she whispered.

Two weeks later, Rose was awoken by a sudden jolt. It was as though the bed had been pushed up from under her. Her breathing accelerated and she grasped at the worn mattress. The tremor still went through her body like some kind of earthquake, but instead of violent ripping, it was almost like a gentle ripple, like when she was a girl and had skipped stones in the pond out back. It vanished softly.

She was alarmed at the sudden shudder that had overtaken her and glanced over at Jack, but he was sleeping soundly as always, with his cheek pressed against his pillow. He was facing her, but not touching her, and his breathing was steady and calm, warming the air around her.

It happened again and shocked, a sigh escaped her lips. This time it was a more sharp push and her hand fluttered nervously to where it had come from – her abdomen. She didn't dare to breathe as she waited quietly. Then there was no mistaking it – it happened a third time and she knew where it had come from.

"Jack! Jack!" She murmured hastily, pulling on his shirtsleeve. She searched his face for some sign of consciousness.

"Uh uh . . . too early," he groaned, and flopped onto his back, tangling his hand in his mussed blonde hair.

Even in the urgency of the moment, she couldn't help but giggle at the boyish immaturity that he showed early in the morning. "Jack! It's important!" She squeezed his bicep, and he moaned in light pain, since his upper arms hurt from all his heavy labor at the factory. He moved his arm away from her and sucked in air.

"Mmm . . . what?" He muttered, arching his back so the sheets fell to his waist and his baggy shirt unstuck from his spine. He sighed and his breathing began to steady again.

"Jack Dawson! Wake up right this instant!" She exclaimed, nudging him in the side. When he groaned again, he could feel her glare searing through his sleep-fogged head and obliterating his brain.

Exhausted, he sat up. Yesterday, a Saturday, he had gotten home from work later than usual because he had to work double shift. He hadn't gone to bed until one in the morning and, he thought groggily as he looked at the simple hand clock next to him, it was only four-thirty. A man needed more sleep than that. He ran his hand through his hair again and blinked a couple of times to clear his sea blue eyes.

"The baby! The baby kicked!" She sounded so excited that it took him a minute to remember what she was talking about. Then all of the sudden he had whooped and his head was on her stomach, listening for anything, waiting for anything, that could tell him that his child was forming inside. She was combing his head with her hands, weaving her slender fingers in and out of his strands of hair, smiling softly as the baby kicked again and an expression of amazement and wonder washed over his features.

"That's our kid," he said gently, gazing at her with admiration, tears overflowing his eyes and dripping onto her nightgown. "Hi," he muttered, almost silently. "Hey . . . I'm your daddy, and this is your mommy, and we're waiting for you out here."

Rose broke into sudden sobs, and she knew her baby's childhood would be so wonderful, and so golden, and so perfect. She knew that he would not have to worry about what she had to worry about when she was young, and she knew his father would be the best father that God had allowed humans to be.

So there they were, both crying in the darkness of earlier morning, tangled in each other and the sheets. Jack sat up and wrapped his arms around his Rose, murmuring quietly, "I'm gonna promise you some things. I promise I will never leave you. I promise I will never forsake you. I promise that you don't have to do anything to earn me. I promise that you and this child have my heart, my whole heart, and will never have anything less. And Rose Dawson, I swear to you by my own blood, I will always, _always and forever_, love you."

She dissolved against him, wordlessly thanking him for loving her, for being part of her, for saving her. She clutched at his shirt, staining it with her tears, pressing her lips against his chest. He forced her chin up with his finger and they looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity.

The eternity that waited for them someday would sometimes rear its head and give them a glimpse of tomorrow, and now was one of those times. The beauty and the silence of this alternate reality captivated them into something that no other lovers would ever share. It was as though their love were just as new as it had once been. The shadows parted and they looked at each other's soul, reading each other's heart, and giving grace to God for allowing them to meet, to love, and then to die and move on eventually.

Her bones turned to mush and she felt hot and shaky under his gaze. He made her feel like water, and the seriousness of his face made her heart slam against her ribs. He loved her, he really did, and he really would forever.

"I . . . I love you . . . too. . ."

She knew what he was going to do before he did it because she started to buzz from her head to her toes. The signal proved correct and before she could take a breath he had hungrily slammed his mouth on hers, bruising her lips and massaging her tongue with his. He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her against him as close as he could, tasting the sweet sugary mouth that was offered only to him. She gave back as much as he took, and that's what the rest of the morning was. Give and take . . . give and take . . .

It was mid-December. Winter had hit especially hard and early in New York City, and snow drifts sparkled on the sides of cobblestone streets. The icy air bit at the little apartment and forced itself through cracks in the old walls. It became so bad that when Rose got up early one Monday morning, she could see her breath clouding like silver dust in the air.

With a slight groan, she wrapped the comforter from the bed around her shivering frame and slipped her feet into her shoes, which she wore even in the house now to ward off the cold. Jack had left recently, for his place beside her was still warm and his pillow still indented. She leaned close to the mattress and took in his soft scent of sandalwood, wishing terribly that he was here to hold her.

He wasn't though, and she could not blame him for it. He had been living this monochromatic lifestyle for months – getting up just about six days out of the seven of the week, working so hard he could barely stand when he got home, cramming some food into his mouth, forcing himself to stay awake long enough to show Rose how much he loved her, and collapsing in exhaustion to repeat the whole thing over again. She wanted him to show his art around so that he could get a different job, but he said they were in no position to do that right now. His job at the factory wasn't ideal, and it was painful, but it was also stable. He would continue to trickle in his income, and once they were more firmly set, he had mentioned something about moving out west and looking into "other opportunities."

For now, both Jack and Rose had to sacrifice things in hope that it would someday pay off, and she was fine with that. She stood up, rubbing sleep out of her eyes, and stumbled to the bedroom door. A pleasant light heat washed over her like a bubble bath, and she saw that Jack had sweetly struck up a fire before he left. Yawning, she eased her way to the tiny kitchen area to eat something. Jack was adamant about Rose eating at least three times a day, for the baby, so she decided to force down some oatmeal or something else cheap and filling.

On the table, written in black charcoal on a piece of portfolio paper, was a note that included a sketch of Rose as she slept. It was fresh and the paper was still soaking in the charcoal, so she knew that her husband had drawn it this morning before he left. She picked it up gingerly, in wonder of how he had captured her. There was a tender, content expression wholly developed on her face, and one hand was resting on her stomach. Her other was flung onto his pillow, where she guessed she had reached for him even in her sleep. Her hair was wild, even pulled into the braid she now carefully plaited every night.

Smiling happily, she read the words written in his familiar tidy scrawl and didn't long for him so much anymore.

_Good morning, you. I really didn't want to leave you today, so I left this in hopes that maybe part of me will stay with you until the rest of me gets home. I know it sounds crazy, but as Fabri used to say, "La amore is not logical, no?" I'll be missing you. Miss me too, will ya? _

_Love,_

_Jack_

Oh, God, what did she ever do to deserve him? The fact that she could have woken up every morning lying next to some despicable bastard in a gentleman's body terrified her, and she was so, so glad that Jack had been given to her instead.

Seeing that picture reminded her that he hadn't showed her his portfolio in at least a month, and she was curious. Breakfast would have to wait. She wandered back into the bedroom and began to sift through the boxes on top of their wardrobe. At the very top of the pile was the leather folder that she had bought him, but she couldn't reach it. She dragged a chair out of the kitchen, brought it back to the wardrobe, and hesitantly clambered atop it. Her goal succeeded when she snatched the carrying case, and she gracefully stepped back onto the floor and lowered herself on the bed.

He had been drawing often recently. Her fingertips grazed the form of a little boy on a street corner. He was dirty, and his clothes were tattered. In his tiny, smudged hands were long, fading flowers and a small coin purse. It was obvious he was selling those flowers, and on his face he wore the expression of no hope, and of pain, and of shame. Something inside of her tore at the helplessness that he seemed wrapped in.

She groped at the next picture to get away from his haunting, soul-searching eyes, eyes that spoke of bitterness that one should not have at his age.

It was then that the pain roared through her, like some sort of beast tearing at her insides. She fell on the floor, not able to move, not able to even scream, but there was one scream that was tearing through her mind with as much hideous satanic force as any other had.

_Oh God! My baby!_


	5. Falling Back Again

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Jack didn't think that the kind of stark terror he had faced on _Titanic_ would ever haunt him again. Even his wildest dreams could not recreate the sheer amount of horror and disgust and hurt that had filled him in those few short hours.

Yet when he kicked off his boots, walked through his living room, made his way into his bedroom, and saw his wife curled into a fetal position and whimpering in pain on one of his shirts that lay atop the floor, a bolt of panic shot its way through him. He could hardly move for several seconds, and she had not noticed he was there because her torture seemed so terrible. His heart skipped many beats, and his breathing stopped.

Suddenly every instinct in him that was for the survival of Rose slammed into life and, filled with an emotion too awful for words, he crumbled on the carpet next to her and took her in his arms. "Rose? Rose!" He shrieked, tears that he didn't notice running down his face and landing on her nightgown. She was still in her nightgown. How long had she been lying here?  
"My God . . . Rose, what happened? ROSE!"

She couldn't answer him, but her eyes were squeezed closed tightly and her breathing was rapid and shallow.

It happened so fast, yet to him it was as though Time was suspended. All of his old fears came rushing back, and the cold grip of mortal terror that he hadn't felt in almost nine months shot through his blood like an addict's needle.

The realization crept across his aching, swollen mind achingly slow. He saw the panic in her fluttering eyes, and the maternal protection screaming its way into her face. He felt the water underneath his knee. He knew.

His baby, his child, the part of him and the part of his wife, the part of _Titanic_, was in danger, and he knew it.

"I have to go find a doctor!" He yelled, his heart slamming inside of his ribcage. Rose let out a gasp of pain. She was too weak to scream. She clawed at his arms and he saw the agony in her green irises, painted with horror.

"Oh baby," he whispered, talking to her and the actual baby at the same time. Fear was keeping him from registering his emotions and he put himself on override. He picked Rose up as carefully as he could, as her deathly pale lips opened and a soundless shriek escaped. She clutched her abdomen and, looking at him, managed an almost silent sentence.

"Jack," she panted, pausing to take shaky breaths and using every fiber of energy she had, "It's . . . it's time . . . but . . . something . . . something's wrong!" Her expression screwed up in hurt and she began to go into spasms.

"I can't leave you here! I just can't!" He didn't know what to do, and he knew that hesitance or a wrong choice on his part could kill mother or child.

"GO!" She yelled forcefully, her sweat pouring onto the sheets. "NOW JACK! GO!"

Tears filled his vision and he propped pillows behind her head. He brushed a curl of hair out of her face. At that moment, he wanted to castrate himself after watching her be in so much pain. He hated himself. God, she had probably never felt like this in her life, and it was all his fault, all his fault because he knew when the baby had been conceived, and he knew that it was because he hadn't been able to turn her away or be stronger.

But with her glassy eyes pleaded and begged with him to go, and he knew that she was willing to die to save her baby. That brought such terror into his soul and dug so deep into his spirit that he didn't have any option but to do what she said. Still, he paused by the bedroom door, and seeing his fear, she murmured, "Trust me."

Those two words brought such a rush of emotions and memories that he felt slammed into for a moment. He could see the icy water, black and foaming white, and it was so close, so, so close, and getting closer every second, reaching at them with its long and cold fingers to pull them into the clutches of death, screaming threats which had before been just whispered. He remembered begging Rose to trust him, begging with his eyes, begging with his heart, begging with everything he had. And he knew they both would have died if she hadn't.

"I love you," he whispered, searching her for some kind of response, but he didn't get any because she was in the throes of torture. He ran to her side, and he saw her about to protest, but he kissed her tenderly on the lips and unable to bear it anymore he was gone, putting on his boots as he ran to the nearest clinic, the entire time praying, because he was too scared to do anything else.

He did not notice the bitter winter wind as it bit through his clothes and his skin became irritated and an angry red. His heaving breaths swirled as silvery puffs of steam into the grey sky, and his boots sloshed through sleet and snow. He slid on rough ice patches and tripped over huge snowdrifts, but he never stopped. He didn't feel the pain of his hands when they were cut into by the cold sidewalk when he fell, for he was back up and running before his brain could register the hurt.

He knew that he couldn't survive without Rose, and he guessed Rose couldn't survive without the baby, and he knew that he needed them both. _God_, he silently thought, _you've almost taken her from me so many times. I love her. I really do. I don't know if you're testing me or what in the world is goin' on, but I honestly can't live without her. She's my life, you know that. Take me instead if someone's gotta go. Could you just do that? I'm not tryin' to bargain or anything, but take me instead. I'll gladly give it all; I'll give my breath and my life for hers and our child's. Keep that in mind, okay?_

He cried the entire time he ran.

Dr. Zablowski was a Polish doctor. He had immigrated to America three years earlier, and had built a thriving practice in Cregakaj, the New York City town where all the Polish immigrants lived to enjoy each other's company and keep with them some familiarity of their homeland. His English, though not perfect, was satisfactory, and he also, of course, spoke Polish fluently. His office was located on the furthest border of Cregakaj, and his low cost services were available to both his brethren and outsiders – from the Asian to the English to the Irish to the Americans.

It had been an uneventful day. He rubbed his beard to rid crumbs from a loaf of bread and his eyes to rid the tiredness. Although he had been up all last night with a sick patient, the dawn had brought a calm in the storm. He had let his partner Dr. Kreckan and his two nurses go home, and he was about to close up shop since it was six o'clock. Anyone who wished to find him after hours found him at his house, and he never turned a needy soul away.

As he packed a file into his leather case and swept up some ashes from his cigar, he heard hurried footsteps and labored breathing outside through his open window. Dozens of men and women were passing by on their way back home, so he assumed someone was simply racing to their abode for food, but there was a sudden pounding on the door.

"Open the door! Please, my wife she . . . Open the door!" An American yelled, and Zablowski heard the terror in his voice. The word "wife" caught him, for he knew what it was like to be in love, and he nearly tripped over his own shoes in his haste to let the man in.

As he threw open the door and a gust of the painfully icy wind hit him straight in the face, he saw that a young man, almost still a boy, with a sculpted face, matured muscles, tanned skin, and blonde hair stood before him. His blue eyes were full of misty knowledge and horrors that one at his age should not have, and deep inside was a panic that resounded in his desperate pleading.

"I live in a flat down the street a ways, my wife's pregnant, the baby's due in a month and there's something wrong!"

That's all that the doctor had to hear. He grabbed his coat and bag and slammed the door shut behind him, holding his hat on his head as he ran in the direction the man pointed. The wind blew against him and made his eyes water so that it was hard to see the ice patches, and he slipped on a few. Yet God blessed him with remotely good fortune and he kept his balance and his determination in the fury of a winter day in New York. He knew that something was seriously amiss, and he tried to find out more before he got there so he could get to work immediately.

"Wat happeened?" He asked, his accent thick, but his companion had no trouble understanding him.

"I don't know! I came home from work, and she was just lying on the floor moaning and holding onto her stomach! I think she mighta been there for awhile!" He answered, and Zablowski could tell he was fighting the urge not to break down. The guilt in the boy's eyes was too awful for him to look at.

"You said ze baby is early, no?" This sounded like the very worst of birth cases, and he was not looking forward to having it turn out to be how he expected.

"Yeah, the baby's a whole month early!" Jack exclaimed, trying to be patient and stay with the older man as they ran so he could answer the doctor's questions. However, once they rounded a corner and the flats were in view, Jack couldn't hold himself back anymore. The impulse to be as close to Rose as possible that never truly left him was cut deeper by the danger, and he shot off as fast as he could, not noticing that his boot was untied. Danger was not something new to him, and neither was having his wife in that danger, but it still was killing him.

The thoughts racing in his mind were bleak enough to fill hell and hopeful enough to fill heaven. He would not allow himself to think that Rose was in could die. He couldn't. To him she was immortal, a celestial creature, his angel that had been given to him and she could not be separated from him. He was not an idiot, he knew how close they had once been to death, but now he had the train of thought that she was invincible. Every time he looked at her, with her porcelain skin, magnolia eyes, beautiful frame, and a heavenly head of red stars for hair, he could not bear to think that she could ever go anywhere without him, even eternity. He would die alone. His life was now so entwined with hers that each breath she took felt like a breath of his, each beat of her heart seemed like a beat of his own. He was hopelessly not himself anymore.

He kicked the door open and tripped into the living room, not bothering to take off his shoes. It would have been inhumane for him to stop for a minute. He ran into the bedroom, where he saw that Rose was even paler, the color of paper or snow, and she could hardly talk. She was twisting on the bed, crying out softly every couple of seconds.

"Rose, Rose, stay with me. I . . . I got someone. He's comin', Rose, he's comin'."

His heart broke because for once he couldn't help her. He couldn't take away her immense pain or worry, and he couldn't make it better. He was absolutely defenseless and she was too. He had promised himself that he would always be there, and always help her, and he had failed again.

This woman in such total anguish on a ratty bed in one of the worst parts of New York City, this woman who was only eighteen and trying to get a baby out of her that had been made in wedlock when she was seventeen, this woman whose eyes were filled with so, so much pain . . . she had once been top of the line. Forget having to go through the beginning of labor alone, or waiting for a doctor to run to her, or giving birth in a leaky flat. Rose would have had the best money could offer – medicine to calm her pain, a doctor that was the best of the best, servants standing around her and mopping her face, a filthy rich husband. For the first time, Jack regretted taking her with him and he regretted her love for him. Not his love for her – no, never! He cherished that love with all he had in him! But only if she had not returned his feelings, it would have been so, so much easier. It was murdering him to see her like this, and he although he knew he would have died on the inside if Rose had chosen Cal, he was willing to die, wanting to die, so that Rose wouldn't have to feel like this.

Tears tracked their way down his face and splattered onto the blanket as he sat down next to his battle weary bride, who seemed like she couldn't hold on much longer. The Devil was reaching for her soul and she was pulling back as hard as she could, but there was going to be an end one way or another.

Dr. Zablowski entered the room and his grey eyes suddenly opened wide with shock when he saw Rose's condition. There was sweat painted across her forehead, matting her wild hair, but she was shivering violently as if she were freezing. The thing that worried him most was that she did not appear to be ready to have the baby yet.

"Now you leesten heere," he cried out, taking sudden control of the situation. His accent was thick, but easy too understand, and the young man looked up from burying his face in his hands. The girl, she had to be a girl, she seemed so young, did her best to pay attention but it was in vain.

"We have a seerious condeetion and very leetle time. I am Dookter Zablowski, and you two are?" He said, going to a water basin in the corner and matter-of-factly washing and drying his hands.

The young man tore his eyes from his beautiful wife's face and answered, "Jack Dawson. And this is Rose."

The doctor strode back to the bed and opened his black case. "Ah. Alreeght, Jack, I am in the theinking that the baby is breech. Do you know what theet means?"

From the stark look of horror that crossed this Jack's face, he knew exactly what it meant. He lips opened in a soundless, "Oh my God," and his eyes became huge with worry. "The baby's upside down?"

"Well, acktually, he is reeght side up. I'm theinking his feet are where his head is supposed to be. If theet be the case, we are goeing to turn him aroond."

A sudden contraction ripped through Rose's body. She screamed.

It was hours later and darkness was cloaking the air outside. Rose's delicate frame was contorted, and her green eyes were foggy with exhaustion. This hurt had plagued her since early morning, and now twilight had passed into the blackness of night. Each time she thought she felt her child move, the doctor shook his head. Apparently the baby would just not turn.

"Oh my God!" Rose screamed, her pillow soaked through with sweat. She grasped her stomach. She loved this baby. She truly did. But this . . . this was insane. She felt more like a cow giving birth than a young woman. Her labor had been absolutely horrible, and her back felt like it was going to break in two.

But to add on to all this misery, Rose had to worry about the life of the little one inside of her. Something was dreadfully wrong. Dr. Zablowski murmured only to Jack, and his brows furrowed more with each passing moment, while Jack searched her face more desperately. She knew that either she or her child was in danger, mortal danger. Perhaps both.

That made the pain almost nonexistent. She loved this baby so much that she did not mind the fact that she felt like she was being torn into bloody shreds. It was as though she had raised her son and daughter for years already.

Jack had wanted to name the baby Anna Jamie if it was a girl, in honor of his parents, and they both harbored secret wishes of what to name it if it was a boy, each of them honoring a past not forgotten.

So she held thoughts of Anna Jamie in her heart. Something told her that it was a girl, and she promised Anna Jamie to do everything she could to get her out healthy into the world, because she deserved that chance. They both did. She was thrilled to have a part of Jack's past with her, and him, forever.

As a little girl, Rose had always dreamed of being a mother, and not just any

mother, but one exactly like her own. She had thought of Ruth DeWitt-Bukater as a strong, beautiful, vibrant woman perfectly capable of being able to raise a daughter. While that might have been true at first, the responsibility and lack of wealth that had followed Jonathan DeWitt-Bukater's death had broke Ruth, and Rose now took that early image of her mother and fixed it as much as she could. Rose was dedicated to trying to be a perfect parent. She knew she could never quite get there, but she was going to do her best.

It was hardest now to keep these optimistic thoughts as the hours wore onward and still her baby would not turn. She cried out again and the doctor shook his head.

Jack was terrified. He wanted to break down because he was so scared, but he had to stay strong for his wife. She needed him right now. Her left hand was wrapped in a death grip around his, and whenever she felt a particular satanic pain, she would squeeze his hand so hard that he knew his bones were cracking. Her wedding bands dug into his fingers and blood dotted his skin, but he didn't care. He honestly didn't give a damn about how much he hurt.

"Mr. Dawseen, may I be seeing you in the cowrner, please?" The doctor asked, his face white from hours of strenuous, stressful work. Jack knew from the look on his face that he was not going to like the news that this man had to give him.

_I don't wanna leave Rose; _he told himself when he felt his reluctance at having a private audience with Doctor Zablowski. _She can't be left alone right now._

But deep inside he knew the truth. He knew that he didn't want to hear, and he didn't want to know, and he wanted to keep safe in the ignorance of the severity of the situation. If he didn't know, he couldn't hurt. So he told himself he had to stay next to Rose, which was certainly true, but denied the coward inside of him.

Yet Rose released his hand and motioned for him to go before grasping her ribs, and he had no choice. His last string of innocence had been cut and he stood up slowly, wishing for all the world that he didn't have to go, but knowing he had too. He nearly kicked the chair he had been sitting on over by accident, and to delay the new further, he made it fall over and purpose and stooped to pick it up. But after that, there could be no more excuses. The doctor was in the corner, and he looked very sad. Not even worried anymore. Just sad.

Jack felt as if his feet were made of lead. The walk from the place where he stood to that corner felt like hundreds of miles. It was the longest walk of his life. Each millisecond brought a new doubt and a new horror and a new fear. Each step told him that he had lost them, both of them, and he was resigned to watching them die. He wanted some invisible force to pull him back, to stop him, for he could sense the evil waiting for him.

It came like a flash, the feeling of overwhelming dread, the feeling he had felt once, and only once, before. He remembered it like it was happening right before him. He remembered be sucked down into the endless black water and he remembered forcing his eyes open to look through the salt at Rose, who swam reaching for him helplessly as the _Titanic_ pulled him further into the depths of the Atlantic. He remembered knowing he could never find her again in the freezing hell of 1,500 people. He remembered knowing they were both going to die.

Now he was safe. He was in his own bedroom. And yet death had somehow found its way to his doorstep again. He knew it had.

"Mr. Dawseen."

He didn't even realize he had made it all the way to the corner. It felt as though it had taken him years, and the words he heard seemed contorted in time and in slow motion.

"Mr. Dawseen, I do not know how to goo about teeling you this, but . . ."

_Oh God_.

"You . . ."

_No God, no, please no, I'll do anything. Take me instead. No._

"Are gooing . . ."

_I can't loose anything else. I just can't. You know that, don't you?_

"Too loose . . ."

_NO!_

"One of them."

Jack couldn't think. His whole heart died. He felt the blackness crawling over it again, and then his spirit died along with that heart. Everything in him wilted like he had been fried by the sun, or drowned like the water had finally caught up to him. How long had he thought he could hide, really? He had known the water was going to catch up to him.

"The baby will not turn and I am theinking he or she is a stillboorn."

The numbness spread from his insides to his outsides, and he couldn't feel. He didn't know what to do.

"A . . . a stillborn?" He whispered, his eyes cold.

"I am soory, but that it what it appears to be."

He looked up at the doctor and saw the sympathy in his face. He looked over at his wife and saw the pain of her body. He looked into his heart and saw the question he had to ask. It was a practical question, a question of logic, a question he had to know the answer to. However, in asking this question, he had to give up his child. And that hurt.

"Can we save Rose?"

The man in front of him sighed, and the last petal of hope for the baby fell from the flower of fatherhood. He knew the baby was gone. He knew, but still he refused to believe.

"I theink so. The baby hast to come out now. But you see, if the child is not stillboorn, then it will die."

He had to chose, and he knew it. He had to choose between child and mother. He hated it and he hated himself and he hated the doctor and he hated the world. He hated passionately and thoroughly.

Yet still he loved.

"How sure are you that my son or daughter is dead?" He asked roughly, but almost silently, cut straight through the flesh and his soul being tormented.

"I am almoost pozetive. I can find no heertbeat."

He began to shake uncontrollably but he would not cry. He was too strong to cry. Damn his stubborn pride! What he needed right now was to break down and plead. He needed to plead with God, for help, for a decision, for forgiveness. But he would not do it.

He stared in shock with hard eyes at the doctor who was waiting impatiently for an answer and he knew there was no time. So often in his life there had been no time. When he was fifteen and the smoke billowed into the graying August sky, there had been no time and he had failed. When he was twenty and the Ship of Dreams had been broken and the boiling black waves were claiming it during the apex of its descent, there had been no time and he had thought, later, perhaps he had won. When he had held Rose in his arms in front of that stone bench, he thought he had conquered the world. But now in his own home, he was desperately loosing this battle with Time.

He had always envisioned himself as a fairly resourceful man, who made good choices quickly when he had to. He had never dreamed he would ever get snagged on a decision. But this was more than a decision . . . it was murder. Murder of hopes, of dreams, of love, and maybe even a Rose.

He knew what he was going to do because passion and devotion had tied their strings too tight around him, but he had to know. He was stalling, praying, wanting beyond needing that something would change.

"Sir . . . doctor . . . If you . . . If you had to make a choice, what would you . . . who would you . . . choose?" He would not let himself cry but the tears built up inside of him and a searing pain shot through his head, but it was ignored.

"I do not theink the baby hast surveeved, and even if it did, it might die anayway becose it is breech. It is in such an odd positeen that delivery might kill it and most likely the wife also. I can save the wife, and theet is what I woold do. I will not peerform surgairy but will simply get the baby out. I would not worry about protecteeing the baby and would not do a by the book delivery. I belieeve he or she is alreedy dead, so my singulair conceern would be to remove the baby and keep its mother alive. "

Something suddenly told Jack that the child was dead. It was a realization that he logically accepted and shoved the grief and pain away for later, knowing it would resurface. He had no choice, and he had to be practical. His child was dead but his wife was not, and he had to save her. He turned off his emotions.

"Do it."

Those two words sounded so harsh, so gruff, that Doctor Zablowski was taken aback and hesitated, not knowing if Mr. Dawson really meant what he had said.

"What are you waiting for! Save her! Do it!"

The doctor nodded and left the man in the corner, hearing his panting and knowing how hard he was trying not to cry. The scene made Zablowski's eyes water, but he could not afford to get attached, especially not now.

The beautiful wild haired woman's face was contorted in torture, but he could see in her face that she was bearing it because she held hope, hope that she would be a wonderful mother with a wonderful child and a wonderful husband, and together they would make a wonderful family. He didn't know what to say or how to even say it. He didn't even know if he had a right to. Her husband ran a hand through his ruffled blonde hair and he walked over to his wife. In that moment, the doctor saw true love. This man was putting his own feelings behind him, and it was obvious from his eyes that he cared only and always about this Rose, not himself.

"Hey you," Jack muttered quietly, resuming his seat next to Rose and grasping her hand. He pushed a sweat-matted curl off of her forehead and kissed her nose, trying to memorize everything on her face. She was not happy, maybe, but at the same time she was . . . and it would be the last time for a long time.

"Jack . . . what did he say?" She moaned, glancing at him with glazed over jade eyes. Then, hearing his terrible silence, the first wave of terror broke over her body and she would give anything to get out of this one moment.

"Rose . . . I need to tell you something . . ." Hurt and confused and lost, Jack trailed off, not wanting to tell her at all. He saw the emotional pain suddenly tormenting her soul, and he hated that. Marriage had only strengthened the unbreakable bond he had already had with her, and everything she felt, he felt.

Every motherly instinct inside of Rose Dawson suddenly began to scream in alarm. Time froze and nothing mattered except for this one second. She glanced from Doctor Zablowski to the love of her life, the one whom she would follow to Hell and back again, the one that had helped her create their baby inside of her, and the one with whom she wanted to raise that baby. She was terrified and for once in her life, it was not about her. It was not even about Jack. It was about a person she felt completely and eternally responsible for and would feel guilt or joy over whatever happened to that little one.

She literally burned inside. It seemed as though the crackling flame of doubt and desperation had finally crept its way into her very spirit, devouring everything in its path.

She glanced at Jack and just knew that no, he could not in any way tell her that her child was going to die, because it was his child too. He would never say to her to give up, and he would never make her risk that child's life. He was too perfect, too wonderful, to understanding. Wasn't he?

"The baby . . . the baby's gone, Rose." The tears in his eyes finally overflowed and he could not stop them. He didn't want to stop them. There was an anguish that coursed through him, an anguish as real as an icy winter sky or black ruffled waves, an anguish that had filled him up once before when he had realized that he had everything to loose and nothing at all to gain. It was an emotion that was impossible to describe with mere thoughts. He was so alone . . . and so lost. There came a point when he couldn't go on anymore. He wanted so awfully to be comforted and held.

_I am so sorry,_ he silently whispered to his unborn son or daughter. _I am so, so sorry. I don't know what happened. Oh God, I'm sorry._

Somehow in that second he got it into his head that it was his fault. He had let someone else down. He should have been home, should have stayed with Rose, should have helped her around the house more . . .

He let these ramblings overflow his mind to keep him away from the bitter grief that he could not yet unleash because he had to keep it locked inside. There was a part of his heart that he cast all emotions he didn't want to deal with, a part that was filled completely, and yet he threw more inside. He refused to meet reality at one moment, couldn't deny it the next – so instead he just tried to pretend it wasn't there. It was stupid, he knew, and it wasn't helping anything, yet every soul has a tendency to avoid the pain that gorges out their being and leaves them empty and alone. He was digging a deeper grave for himself, wanting desperately to claw his way out, but absolutely refusing to because he was himself, and he was strong, and he could not break down. He just couldn't. Tears he allowed, because there was no stopping them and anyone who didn't cry in his situation was not human. Yet fear and pain he turned away, and of course they just built up higher and higher, drowning him. Bloody remains of dreams were strangling him, and he would not see it, not now, and maybe not ever.

But Rose was a different story. He saw a blank look of misunderstanding rush across her, as though she was still hiding in the safety of her innocent lack of knowledge. As long as she refused to listen, he knew, she did not have to accept that her baby was dead.

Rose could not do that for very long. Reality was tearing at her heart, ripping away shreds and shreds until, to save herself, she had to face it. And the black battle began.

She burst into tears, but not pathetic, helpless tears. No, hers were hot and angry and resentful, not understanding, not wanting to understand. They were tears that carried a message right to Heaven, a message of hurt and blame and confusion and disgust.

There is a special bond between friend and friend. There is a special bond between friend and enemy. There is a special bond between husband and wife. There is a special bond between father and offspring. But nothing, nothing on this Earth or in Heaven or in Hell, can match the bond between mother and child.

Another part of the already cut down Rose was broken off and swept up by the Devil, who was determined to have all of her. The string between herself and hope was sliced, love was soaked from her being, and she was left dry and empty and afraid. It was like loosing her mind all over again. She was going crazy. There was no way she could enter more loss into her system, and this was the most evil one of all. The child she had thought she would dress in ribbons or checkered little suits, the child she had thought she would raise up to be a young woman or man, the child she thought would bring so much more joy to her life, that child was now deprived of life. The cruel irony of it made her shiver and for a second all of the tremendous pain she was in was just not there. A body can only handle so much at one time, and the emotional torture far outweighed physical.

There was something hideous waiting for her, and it drove her sanity from her. She tried to numb the hurt, tried to forget, tried to just keep giving birth, because she knew her baby would be fine.

But then, slowly, she glanced at Jack again, and she saw the anguish and horror and hideousness painted across his face, and she thought she understood.

"God . . ." she whispered, "God . . . Oh my God . . ." There was nothing else to say. The tears that had cascaded now froze on her cheeks, their trails glistening in shimmering pain.

The doctor began to walk over and Rose suddenly knew. What had she heard him say? That Jack had to loose one of them? That meant one would survive, and that might mean the baby would survive.

She finally understood Jack's willingness to die that night in the Atlantic to save her. For the longest time, she had no idea why such a beautiful creation would sacrifice everything that he had for someone so unworthy as she. The guilt had plagued her. She remembered the determination in his icy blue eyes when he had demanded that she live, and she remembered the sound of her heart breaking. But now, she got it. She was willing to die for love too, another pure and holy love, and he had to understand. It was an explosion of courage and devotion, and she had valor almost as great as his.

Time caught her up in its wings, and she wondered how she could do this to him. Would that mean his attempted sacrifice was in vain, because she did not value her life more than her child's? Or maybe he had saved her so she could save another. Maybe that was the cycle . . . life, defeat, victory, death . . . again and again. He had made it through, and he could raise a baby on his own. She knew he could.

But oh, she loved him so! Realizing that she was going to have to leave him and tell him that she was doing so willingly made her respect what he had been willing to do even more, because it must have torn him up to say verbally to her that he loved her enough to make her live while he had to die. Even in the midst of all of this trauma, when she turned to her husband and thought about the passion she had for him, it nearly killed her already to think that she was going to have to tell him goodbye. He had saved her so, so many times, and she could not possibly love him more than she did right now. He was her knight in shining armor, her soulmate, her destiny, her fate, what everything in her life had led to. He was invincible, he was her friend, he was her rock. Inside of him he kept her heart, and he knew he did, and he loved her with just as much unconditional love as she had for him. She knew their love could do anything . . . cross boundaries of time and places, reunite and separate them, defeat the world.

But this was goodbye for such a long, long time. For him, for the child, she had no choice, but her own heart broke cleanly in half again, and she hated life sincerely and honestly.

She looked at him with a streak of unintelligible pain in her eyes, and finally Hell had found its way to their doorstep. This time, there was no where to turn, and no one to cling to, for the two opposing sides of the battle were Jack and Rose, who were never supposed to be separated like that.

"Jack . . ." she whispered weakly, the sobs still wracking her throat. She reached blindly for his hand, and in his grief he allowed her to limply grasp it. He focused on her, his intense gaze boring into her soul, and it was even harder to tell him what she had to.

"Save the baby."

Jack stared at her uncomprehendingly, because his mind would not even register those three words. To save the baby meant to give up on his wife, and he could not do that for a baby that a doctor declared dead already. He would not loose everything. He would not. That childlike voice somewhere deep in the back of his mind told him he could not.

So, with his heart pounding so fast that it was knocking against his lungs and forcing any air out of him, he was forced to answer her. He knew how much what he had to say would hurt, but there was no other way around it. Something he had never wanted to say to this celestial creature had to be said, and he was disgusted with it. "No, Rose," he murmured quietly, his gaze once again set with willpower and purpose to save her life.

She looked at him in absolute shock, because he did not listen to her. For the only time she could remember, he was using his advantage of being the husband, the last deciding voice, and he was refusing her. He had never done that before, never made her obey him, never taken command when she didn't want him to. He had not been a master, but a partner. Now he was different. He did not even plead or grovel. He just said no, and that was it. But it was not anger she felt; it was panic. Pure, unadulterated panic. She understood that if he didn't do what she said then their little one was going to die, and she could not let that happen. What kind of cruel, heartless man would give up his own baby's life? An innocent, unsuspecting baby? Her Jack was not like that. Her Jack could not be like that. He would sympathize – he had to. He could not be selfish and hold her back.

"Jack, save the baby. Please! Save my baby!" She grabbed at him, clawing at his shirt, fear and terror and inhuman, hideous desperation shooting from her muddy green eyes.

What was he doing to her? He felt like a disgusting monster tearing a child's life from its mother's grasp, but he had no choice. The logic of his decision was the only thing that kept him going, for in that moment the room was filled with blackness not just from the outside night, but from Death itself. He screamed silently to his Lord, his Savior, and he asked why. He asked why he had to make this choice, and why God wanted to hurt him so terribly.

"Rose . . . I'm so sorry . . . I'm so, so sorry . . . but the doctor says the baby's already dead and –"

She tried to sit up wildly, her hair streaming around her face. "NO! No, my baby is not dead, do you hear me? Do you hear me! Forget about me! Kill me! Get my child out alive this instant! God damn it, do it, Jack!" She looked at him with tears making a river down her cheeks, and he saw her broken soul, her tormented spirit, her aching heart . . . he saw it all. The emotional bruises had been deepened into mortal wounds and he could not help her. The look in her eyes told him he had become the enemy, and Jack Dawson could not be Rose Dawson's enemy. It was not possible. She had to understand that this was for her, for him, and for their child.

He grabbed both of her shoulders and pulled her inches from his face, holding her still as she tried to convulse. He would not allow it and he shook her back and forth, his urgency to get her to realize the truth obvious and bloody.

"Listen to what I'm saying to you, Rose! Listen to me! Our child, not just _your_ child, but my child too, is stillborn! The baby's not alive Rose! It's dead! It's dead!"

She shrieked and tried to rip away from him, pushing away his words and his body at the same time. Inside she refused to believe, and lived in comfortable denial. She just wanted a few more seconds . . . a few more seconds of bliss, a few more seconds of thinking she was about to become a mother. She did not want to see reality, so she had to turn away from her husband.

"How can you do this!" She stared wildly around, searching for anything to overturn her jury's ruling. She needed her flesh and blood to survive, even if it meant she physically had to die. She could not handle the guilt of watching her little one die.

Her eyes fell on Dr. Zablowski, who was watching all this with a deep, indescribable sadness. His dark head was bowed and his hands were folded. It seemed as though maybe he was praying, and for the life of her Rose couldn't see why. Hadn't God done this? Hadn't God chosen to destroy the family she was so close to having? Or had she, in her own selfishness, done it?

She saw the stubbornness of an inflexible mind in Jack's icy blue gaze, and she knew that if it was up to him her son or daughter was never going to live. Any fury she could have felt at him she did not have energy for, but she whirled around to the other man in the room, a man who perhaps could do something. Anything!

"Doctor!" She cried out, looking at him with such pleading and pure hurt that it was all he could do to hold eye contact with her. "You . . . you can't . . . let him do this! Please . . . please save my baby . . ."

Jack and the doctor opened his mouth at the same time to protest, one out of logic and the other out of deep, devoted love, but Rose suddenly fell back onto the bed.

All of the sudden a sudden spasm of pain, much sharper and hotter and venomous than all the last combined, plummeted through her veins and rocked her whole self, suffocating her in its relentless grip. Her irises glossed over. At first the torment was so awesome that she could not speak and she grabbed Jack's hand with a force that made his eyes water. But the real tears that fell from the corners of his eyes were tears of betrayal, tears of confusion, tears of helplessness. Seeing his beloved fight for a life she did not want through such torture made his heart break.

This fiery woman smothered in sweat and whose soul was so stressed was the same exact fiery woman he remembered, and that is what hurt him the most. There was such a difference from the beautiful, amazing, blissful girl she had been in those few hours following an April sunset and the beautiful, amazing, almost dying woman she was now, her body nearly crumbling on a ratty bed cover.

Again he felt the overwhelming shame that he had done this to her, and how and why he did not know. All he knew was that his passion and eternal adoration had led to this nightmare, and maybe she could have been so much more comfortable, and so much safer.

Then he remembered the demons and ghosts of her past, covered in what appeared to be wonderful titles, personalities, and riches but really falling apart and abusing this flower until she was nothing but a withered stem.

He was so confused, and he did not want to work it out now. Rose's face, painted with horror, was enough to fill in every cavern of his mind and would surely haunt him forever.

"Oh no," Dr. Zablowski shouted and raced over to the bedside, opening his bag as he did so. The dread that his voice told Jack that the worst had begun and it hit him so hard that he could hardly breathe. In slow motion, it seemed as though his entire life flashed by, not his wife's. He wondered if this was a sign that he was going to die instead of her, and he gladly and gratefully accepted the notion. He was ready to breathe his last breath to guarantee all of Rose's.

It was as though he was waiting for the final moment to rip all the air from his lungs. He watched the man in front of him grab all his tools, and he watched his own calloused hand reach out and tenderly stroke his love's cheek. He felt his lips brush her clammy forehead and her fingertips grasping at him in desperate pleading.

But his mind was somewhere else, on some other plane of Time. His mind was welcoming death, and so was Rose's, but each in such different ways.

Dr. Zablowski was washing blood off of his hands under running water in the Dawson's bathroom. He could not stop shaking, and his fingers were so unsteady that he thought he would slice them off if he attempted to clean any of his tools. He waited for the first wave of calmness to come.

Dawn was not far off. Never, not once in his long career in two countries, had he ever experienced anything quite like he had tonight. A deep and terrible guilt was welling inside of him, because he had lost the battle with Death, forsaken Life, and abused Love.

He had seen so many, many miscarriages. He had felt the unbreakable bond between a parent and a child before, more times than he cared to remember. He had watched a mother kissing her dead baby's cheek and seen a mother's tears dripping on her baby's body. But this was surreal. The life of Rose had been strangled from her body when she heard Jack tell her the truth. Instead of falling into each other's arms and weeping, which is what all the other couples had done, she had gone inside of herself and fought an inward battle, a battle that was still raging through her at that moment. And her husband . . .

The doctor hadn't even noticed that he had been crying. This was a sort of pain that transcended everything else, something that convinced him that Hell really did exist. The tears still coursed down his cheeks, cold, icy, terrible. There was some experience that had stained their lifetime, something that was so horrible they couldn't talk about it and they obviously couldn't stop thinking about it.

He had seen the angels and demons in Rose's eyes, had felt some sort of otherworldly presence. Not the presence of God, or the presence of the Devil, but the presence of people . . . people that were no more.

_There was no more hope. Dr. Zablowski had never been in a room without any hope at all. It was suffocating him, poisoning his body. Without even a ray of light, the emotional blackness nearly drowned him._

_He knew he had to stay strong in order to save Rose. He knew he had to. But it was so, so hard to convince himself that he could. He tried not to think as he felt through Rose's whispery nightgown and finally felt the babe's foot. The position that Rose was in forbade the baby from being able to move, and if he or she had been alive, they were dead now._

_The very context of that word, dead, made him shiver and he felt phantom's fingers traveling up and down his backbone. This child hadn't even had a true chance at life, not even half a chance, and it was obvious that his parents had wanted him so. For even now Rose was wailing in fury, fury he could only guess was directed at him for making her husband choose, fury at her husband for actually choosing, and fury at God for not saving her little one. There was a fury even deeper than that, a fury he couldn't understand, something he didn't even want to try to understand. She was crying too, and each teardrop spoke of some other horrible tragedy in her life that was not over. Something new was coming and hurting her before she had healed._

_It broke his heart to look at her. Her magnolia eyes screamed of a maturity and an understanding and a hurt that was far beyond how old she had to be. She looked so young, the age that was supposed to be filled with dreams and destiny. Her skin was smooth and flawless, her features still perfect and lovely. Age had not even begun to glance at her, and there was a betrayed innocence that lingered in her very breath. She reminded him of his own daughter, Anetka, who was only sixteen. Imagining Anetka in Rose's place nearly killed him, and it was all he could do to focus on his task. He felt a strange kinship with this girl he had never before seen. _

_And her husband . . . he looked stricken with guilt and a terrible terror. He would not leave her side even for a second, and he continuously stroked her face or kissed her hand. He too had wisdom that a young man should not have. There was a responsibility on his shoulders that the doctor knew that he himself could not bear if he had too. Jack obviously felt accountable for more than his child and even his wife. He felt a need to protect her, protect his soul and spirit and heart and mind, and something else that humanity didn't know a name for. _

_"I promised I wouldn't let you hurt like this again," Jack muttered silently, a tear sliding from his face to rest on her neck. "I swore it." He collapsed next to her, and Zablowski could see the confusion and torment he was in as clearly as the blood on his hands. But the next scene was something he could never forget._

_Amid all of her physical, emotional, and spiritual pain, amid all of her righteous and unworldly anger, amid the nightmare that she was living in reality, the young woman cradled her husband's head in her arms and rocked him back and forth as they wept together._

_Right at that second, he saw something he had never seen before. He saw truth in something he had doubted for a long time. He saw . . . a celestial beauty that he couldn't describe._

_Because honestly, he saw that true love, pure and true love, could not be overwhelmed by man or beast or Devil. He saw that true love was the strongest force on Earth, stronger than hate. And he saw that although Satan may try, he could not separate these two soulmates from the absolute honest fact – these two people loved each other, with a love that he had never experienced before. It was like a love that had already reached the apex of heaven, and it was a love that he knew could never be broken._

_"I need you to prush as 'ard as you can, Rose," he yelled, with a newfound determination to spare this magnificent girl's life. "Now! Prush!" _

_There was a scream as Rose tried to expel a body from her own. Jack's protectiveness automatically kicked back into full force and he sat erect, that dread and worry coating his eyes once more, but something else was there too. It was obvious that he was masking the intensity of his apprehension for his wife. "You can do it, Rose, I know you can, I know it . . ." He whispered over and over again, letting her clench his palm in her own and moving sweaty hair out of her eyes. _

_Suddenly it was as though a cold, icy fist let go of Rose's abdomen. It unclenched, and her rounded stomach heaved. She let out an absolute shriek, a shriek of hurt so sharp that the doctor had never heard one quite like it before. He had done amputations, and he had performed surgery without anesthetic, but not a single patient had gone through anything to this degree. She literally looked as though she were about to burst from her skin._

_He continued to pull as hard as he could on the baby's leg, working him or her out into the world which had cruelly denied them. This seemed to nearly kill Rose, because she was supposed to be looking forward to holding a wailing child and all that would greet her was stiffness, and cold, and silence._

_"Almost there, Rose, almost there . . ." Jack murmured quietly, touching her gently and raining soft kisses on her fingertips. Rose could not stop crying, and this added to the difficulty of her breathing. She began to gasp, sweat streaming down her forehead, until the sobs and gasps were so mixed together that she could not get any air, and she desperately needed it._

_"Stop it! Stop! Rose, you are needing to bereathe. Do it noow. Sloowly. Be careeful, please. Theet's a girl." As Doctor Zablowski calmed the young woman, her breathing became more regular. She turned to Jack and looked at him with such dread that the doctor wondered how anyone could meet her eyes, but he did. Every shred of pain in her irises was magnified in his, and even he could see what this husband was telling his wife. Clearly, that look meant "I'm with you. I love you. Hang on, just hang on. It'll all be over. I promise." But the thing that shocked him most was that Rose seemed content to believe Jack. _

_As if to affirm what Zablowski had just observed, Jack's gaze intensified into his love's eyes. "Trust me," he stated, with such determination and purpose that one could hardly tell he was begging, because he was._

_Those two words seemed to have a huge affect on his maiden. The look of franticness in her face died away, and it seemed as though he was the only thing in the world that she saw. She was looking into his soul through his pupils, into some past she had not forgotten. He simply sat there and let her read his heart, and it was simple that she loved him more than even she thought possible. Although her entire body was writhing in contractions and terrible anguish, she managed focused on him long enough to apparently see her dreams and destiny._

_"I trust you."_

_He leaned down to kiss her cool lips. It was a brief kiss, because time and pain would allow for no other, but still the electricity shot between them overflowed and crackled in the air around them. It was an almost visible force binding them together eternally, and it was enough to keep Rose going through it all._

_So he continued to pull and yank, careful not to tear the mother, but in a hurry to get the baby out lest the mother bleed to death. She had lost color from her lips and cheeks, but it was obvious that she was not going to die because she refused to. He did not want to test this, though, and within minutes he pronounced the child outside of Rose's insides._

_The minute he said that, Rose screamed. It was more than a scream of pain; this was a scream of immortal torture. Before, he knew the baby had been immortal to her. But she must have felt the absence in her stomach, where something she had believed to be alive and flourishing had once lain. She did not hear any crying. So she knew . . . she knew and she hurt. _

_"But the baby kicked . . . the baby kicked . . ." She kept on sobbing this over and over again, while Jack held her exhausted body that would not stop flailing because of it's torment._

_Hearing this statement, the doctor glanced for the first time at the thing in his arms. And there . . . there was something that made him ache. It was a girl. She had developed regularly on the outside, with nothing except the blueness of her skin and the emptiness of her chest cavity to display that she never had so much as a chance. He guessed something terribly wrong had happened when the baby had tried to be born early, something that had happened as a result of a trauma extremely early in the pregnancy that had mutated the infant's vital organs._

_After his scientific evaluation, he could not block out what his heart felt any longer. Hearing the shrieks of a mother that could not be rattled him. But when he gazed on that face, he truly hated the world right at that second. The tiny, soft eyelids were lightly clasped, as though in some sort of deep slumber. A little face wore a serene expression of satisfaction and acceptance that a newborn baby did not have, and by the lightness of the child in his arms he knew life had left her some hours before he had arrived. Then he saw the small, wispy, blonde curls that were attached to the tender scalp, and it hit him. There had been a person inside. This was not a fetus, but this had been a soul and spirit that he had not been able to save. He looked up at the parents, and he wished so honestly that he had gotten here in time that it made him feel sick._

_"Wat I need to say is . . . It was a girl . . ." He whispered quietly, as if afraid to awake the little baby that could never awake. He stroked a perfect little arm and counted ten perfect fingers and ten perfect miniature toes. Yet the blueness of her cold skin haunted him._

_Then Rose did something which surprised him and at the same time it didn't. She reached out her slender hands, the tears suddenly held at bay, and she demanded that she hold her child. The need that every mother feels to hold their baby was still strong in her, and he could not deny her the right that every woman had._

_Yet it hurt to let the flawless thing go, even to that to which it belonged. He felt another twang of guilt and imperfect shame as he laid the itsy body into the ivory arms of the one who had borne it. And he watched._

_As crazy as it was, a tiny smile spread across Rose's face as she gazed upon her own flesh in another form. She ran a petite finger down her daughter's cheeks, chest, legs, and arms. She lightly kissed the pale curls of hair and then each innocently closed eye. A tear dropped from her face onto her little one's belly._

_The same sort of insane love took sudden hold of Jack, and Zablowski could see that he fervently loved his daughter, even if his daughter could not physically love him back. _

_What the doctor didn't know was that Jack was looking at a product of passion that defied the laws that humanity had laid down, a passion as sweet and beautiful and pure as the child. There was one last porthole to a time and place that Jack and Rose were a part of, only and always them. This child had been conceived in a sort of eternal paradise that didn't exist anymore, and she was their last link to something they did not want to let go, to a devotion that they wanted to keep alive. It was a devotion that went past them, but that chained them to ghosts that loved them and likewise loved this little baby._

_But Dr. Zablowski couldn't know this, and he observed Jack pull his wife and dead child into an embrace which sheltered all of them from Death, even if it was only for the briefest second. Love was all that existed in their world, and it felt wonderful, and tears flowed freely down all three faces, even as one stood on the outside looking in._

_"I love you," Rose whispered gently to her daughter. "I'll always love you, Anna Jamie Dawson." _

_Jack bit his lip until blood sprang from a cut, and he seemed to be holding back weeping, because if he didn't it seemed like he would never stop. He kissed the little girl too, and he whispered her chosen name over and over again._

_"Anna, I'm your daddy, and that's . . . that's your mama. She carried you for a long time just to see this, and we're not mad at you. We're . . . we're proud of you for trying . . . and . . . and I love you . . ."_

_He got so choked up that he couldn't go on. There was some sort of otherworldly thing, a phantom of sorts, and it seemed that Jack sensed him most. The doctor was terrified and he was frozen in fear, but Jack just nodded and muttered, "I know, Fabri, I know." Whoever Fabri was he did not know, but he was not frightened anymore. Just humbled._

_Then the two parents just broke into frenzied crying at once, clinging to each other and their daughter, unable to let go of her body. Zablowski had to wait for hours until he could take her from them and put her in a body bag. _

_When he at last pulled the child from her father's grasp, her mother reached for her and took her back. He fought her to take Anna away. "I . . . I have too . . . she is dead . . ." He continued to shout, and Jack tried to hold Rose back, but eventually he let her grieve._

_It broke his heart to take a baby away from her mother, and he never forgot the empty eyes of Rose Dawson. He never forgot the ghastliness on her pretty face, nor the look of hate and confusion she shot at him. It seemed as though Hell rose from the bowels of the depths into that tiny bedroom, and it all closed in on her. She seemed to be fighting so many demons she became overwhelmed, and as he ran from the room her heard her scream, "Give me my baby! I'm sorry! God, I'm so sorry! Why are you taking her! ANNA!" Then that heart tearing shriek attested to her dissolving into wrenching tears that shook her whole body, and he heard Jack going to her as he brought the baby into the living room and placed her in a small bag that he had brought with him._

_The sobs never stopped, and soon he heard Jack's joining in as Loss and Hell drowned two people. He could do nothing to help them as he forever closed their daughter in darkness._

Jack kissed a sleeping Rose on the forehead as she tossed and turned on the bed, lost in nightmares. He stood above her, needing desperately to hold her, and yet he could not wake her up. Even though the nightmare she was having had to be terrifying, it could not be as bad as the real thing, the reality that had become so twisted and hideous that he couldn't even think straight anymore. While she rested, he tried to make himself go and talk to the doctor so that she did not hear the gory details, just him. It hurt too much to see her cry with him, and to remember everything they had lost.

He had been a father for what seemed like mere seconds, and he still loved in the way only a father could. It had been a maddening love, without reason or rhyme, just there. He had wanted so badly for that little girl to cry, to scream, to flail, to breathe . . . and it just hadn't happened. God had robbed him of another one that was precious to him, and it hurt him much more than he thought anything could. He didn't know why he found it so hard to let go of someone he had never had a hold on in the first place. Now a hole inside of him that he thought he had completely covered was growing again, getting deeper and blacker, and he could not stop it. A vital part of him had been ripped out and he knew he would never find it. Again, his heart had to mold and change shape, perhaps become a little bit smaller, to account for the missing piece.

He had seen enough death already to last him forever, and holding his own dead child had nearly snapped whatever resolve he had left. There had been something that was supposed to be flawless and perfect, and yet Death had changed her into nothing but an empty body.

With a fresh wave of guilt tearing his heart into bloody shreds, he looked down at his young wife again. Although she had marched through Hell itself, she still looked so young, so beautiful. Her innocence was still as fresh as the new fallen snow that lay outside, or the promise of spring. He could not help but want to preserve that unbroken purity, to keep it clean and to spare her from the pain that seemed so determined to take her from him. There was some sort of beast after her, a beast that had chased her for a long time.

"Well," he whispered silently, partially to turn away the monster and partially to ease his stinging worry, "You can't have her. You can kill, you can sicken, you can tear up, but she's still mine and you aren't gonna get her. Ever. I swear that."

She shifted slightly, disturbed by the soft sound of his voice in the air. She clutched at her stomach, a stomach that was so much flatter, and something inside of him ached so terribly that he felt he had to sit down next to her. Blindly, even as she slept, she reached for him. The terrible hurt continued to make him throb as he allowed her arms to entwine around his neck and leaned down, so that her hot breath warmed his skin.

He stayed above her like that for what seemed like forever, just taking her in. There was a scent of sweat, yes, but there was also that lovely rosewater that he had smelled so many times. It was the smell that made him feel like maybe, just maybe, they would get past all this someday. When she pulled him down, he lay next to her and wrapped his arms around her shrunken waist. Shame nearly drowned him when he saw her youngness again, the ring on her finger, her empty abdomen, and her horror-streaked face.

He cried very hard without making a sound. It was just Jack and his wife, ever so alone, as tears soaked his pillow and Rose's fiery red hair.

Jack was finally capable of getting up some time later. He tenderly embraced Rose, who was still in the realm of dreams, and opened his bedroom door. He hadn't heard Doctor Zablowski leave, and he knew that he needed to talk to the Polish man before he walked out the door. There was so much he didn't understand, and so many questions he had. He didn't know if he had the strength to ask them yet.

He hadn't slept at all, even though he was exhausted. He couldn't sleep. There was a weight on him that denied him any rest from reality at all, and he was happy to oblige it because he was too guilty to allow himself satisfaction or even a glimpse of hope.

He felt like he had broken the wings off of the little bird that carried all the dreams they had had. It seemed as though any visions of family that had existed before were just dead now, as dead as the brown leaves under all the snow outside, as dead as the skeletons in the Atlantic, as dead as his heart.

He swiped at a stray tear and sighed heavily as he entered the kitchen. The doctor sat at the table, with his head buried in his hands, and his rough lips were moving silently as if he were praying.

Jack stood there for a moment, unwilling to disturb a prayer. He watched, fascinated, as the man silently cried out to his God, running his hands through his hair and beard, looking like he was begging forgiveness. Then he started to whisper, and Jack realized that he was praying in his native tongue. It made him choke up all over again.

Suddenly Zablowski seemed to sense his presence as he sat up straight, as if startled. He looked at him with sympathy, and Jack had to glance away. Jack hated sympathy, even now, when he really needed it.

"She will be feene once she reests."

Jack continued to stare at him, not blinking, just studying and hurting. There was no animosity in the stare, no hatred, no anger. It was just pure pain and pure gratefulness, because he still had his Rose. In the eternity after he would have her forever, but he could not let her go now. He was extremely selfish, and he knew it, and he did not regret it in the least. There was unfeeling in his icy blue irises, but it was not because he lacked emotion. It was because he lacked the capability to feel sheer agony that badly again. He could only hurt like that once in his life, and it had been done already. So because he could not display all of his feelings, there was a gaping hole in his heart.

More than a child had died. A future had died . . . a future full of beautiful certainty that had changed into what-could-have-beens. It was like a star had been born for a split second, shimmering in its potential and magnificence, but it had quickly perished and grown cold. There were so many cold stars in his life . . .

He could not help but think about Fabri at a time like this, because he desperately needed a best friend to help him get through. Rose needed to be supported herself, and they had to grieve together, but he wanted to be able to cry without feeling like he was letting someone down. He wanted to be able to just break apart, to not have to stay strong. But he knew the truth; he knew that Fabrizio was not here, and that he never would be again.

For the first time, he allowed himself to silently say something that he had denied since April. Maybe he had denied it because of guilt, maybe because of shame, maybe just because of the sheer pain. The denial didn't change reality, but he felt like he had been running from a truth that he couldn't run from anymore. He had been able to say, "Fabri is gone," or, "He moved on." Even that had taken all of his emotional strength. But right now he had just faced one huge mound of hurt and he when he turned around another was there that he wanted gone. So he thought the three words needed to free his best friend from the bond of slavery to this world, and let him go to another.

_Fabri is dead_.

Even in his mind, the words sounded so hollow, so brutal. So devoid of any emotion. He could not help but vividly remember the last time he had seen him, and the desperation in those warm brown eyes. There had even been blame and anger, but not directed at Jack. Maybe it was directed at the Captain, or at the officers, or at the White Star Line. Maybe it was directed at God. But deep in his heart, Jack knew that Fabrizio had possessed the right to blame, the right to wonder and question and cry. He had not only been ready for America, but he _deserved _America. He deserved the freedom, the liberty, and the beauty of a new life. What Jack couldn't understand is why it was denied from him, and why such innocence had been betrayed. He looked at the world with tired, weary eyes now, because of all of the hurt that had worn him down. There was still that thirst for adventure and life, but also a dread that everything he had experienced would hit him again.

Today it had. Perhaps it would happen again, he didn't know. He was not so naïve as to think that God only let life be unfair once or twice.

"Will she be able to have children again?" He asked quietly, praying that there entire future had not suddenly just ended. For as much as he loved Anna Jamie, he wanted to love another baby someday, a baby that would love him back. It hurt to look that far into the future, but he knew he had to. Rose couldn't.

Dr. Zablowski looked at him evenly for a moment, and then slowly answered. "Yes . . . she weel . . . if she avooids the . . . condeetion early in her term that causeed her to . . . to loose Anna . . ." He eyes dropped from Jack's face to the ground and he nervously scuffed the kitchen floor with his boot.

Jack shook his head and ran a masculine hand through his tangled blonde hair. "Don't worry, sir. She will be that cold again, I promise." He swallowed and let his heart take that promise and tuck it away for eternity. It meant more than physically cold; it meant emotionally, it meant she would never have a love starved body ever again.

There was an uncomfortable silence, and Jack finally noticed a little black sack on the kitchen table. A shock of horror and terrible sadness washed over him again, for he knew what that sack contained.

His breathing became uneven and the heat that meant tears were on the way burned his whole body. He tried not to imagine that tiny girl closed forever in the darkness, because he knew he could not handle it.

"It's all my fault," he breathed, his eyes stinging and his heart dangerously close to fluttering out of control. "I should have stayed with her . . . I should have been there . . . I should have made her stay on the . . . the boat!" He forced the last words out. They came before a torrent of weeping that violently wracked him and he slammed against the counter behind him.

Jack sank on the floor, weeping viciously, moans being torn from his lips. There was no hero, no potential, no life, and no hope left within him in that moment. He was simply a very broken man, with a spirit that was being crushed under something far bigger than he was.

"God . . . why didn't I keep her out of . . . of the . . . the water?" He sobbed, not even trying to dry his soaked cheeks or keep the water off of his shirt. The drops rained steadily on the floor and he tasted salt running into his mouth, burning the cuts that he had made from biting his lip. "Damn it!" There was a tortured anger in his words that terrified the doctor in front of him, because the doctor had never seen such anguish like this. It was more than the loss of a daughter, it was the loss of faith and dreams and maybe a Rose, but Zablowski couldn't know that.

"I have to teeke the baby," Dr. Zablowski whispered quietly, laying a hand on tormented man's shoulder, even though he knew he couldn't really help. "I cannot leave her heere. You can contoct me with funeeral arrangeements, but I have to put her in the morgue."

Jack looked up at him with haunted, bloodstained blue eyes. Those eyes were not here, but in another place and time, maybe another reality. Ghosts seemed to glance out from ebony pupils.

"Be careful with her," Jack murmured. There was nothing else to do. Every particle of him wanted to hold his little girl again, and he wanted to keep her here. But a tiny practical voice that he could not kill told him that was a danger not only to himself, but to Rose. So instead he would go hold his wife, and they would cry together, and they would be expected to heal.

He hated the cruelty of the world, because the world did not let people mourn. He was told that he had to get back up tomorrow and go to work and act like nothing had happened. He was forced to pretend as though a huge chunk of his soul had not been torn out. He was disgusted with all of the fakeness, and all of the feigning. That was what he had saved Rose from, but he had learned that cheap shamming was part of the game everywhere. It made him want to die to think that men and women were that far gone.

Not that he didn't want to die anyway.

He was staring straight ahead, his mind in so many places. He was back on that farm in Chippewa Falls, watching black flames boil into a sky with ashes that carried his parents. He was on the icy Atlantic, where time didn't exist and boundaries didn't matter. Where he had found and lost true love, where he had said goodbye to friendship and seen horrors that most people were not even capable of dreaming of. And he was also in a tiny apartment in the slums of New York City with a dead child in a doctor's bag and a battered, tear-stained wife sleeping on an old bed. No matter where he went came this suffocating feeling of shame and misunderstandings, making him gasp for air he did not deserve to have.

He looked up and realized the doctor had gone, leaving the handwritten address of his office on the kitchen table. He hadn't even noticed. Just like that, Anna Jamie was out of his life, never to be brought back again.

It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. The enormity of the pain he was in made him stagger when he stood up. He had a roaring headache, but he did not notice, because the body does not hurt when the heart does that badly.

He heard Rose crying softly in the bedroom and his pulse quickened. He did not want her to cry. He knew it was unavoidable, knew that it was something she had to do. Yet the part of him that would not listen to reason, the part of him that wanted to protect her from agony as long as possible, did not want her to have to cry.

When he quietly pushed the door in, she was facing him on the bed. Her whole body was curled in a fetal position and she had her face buried in her arms to muffle her sobs. Curls tangled around a beautiful, tortured face.

What was left of his heart broke right at that moment. He did not know what to do. Again, Jack did not know what to do. He was as lost as she, and he couldn't act like he wasn't. So he stood helplessly in the doorway, for the first time unable to help the girl he loved with everything he had and everything he never would.

It was not what fate had wanted. God could not have possibly wanted two soulmates to be pried apart by evil. He could not have designed them for the purpose of heartache. It just wasn't possible.

But all of those walls came crashing down from the Heavens with a tiny little moan of one word from the white lips of a young woman with that wild red hair. "Jack . . .!"

That was all that it took. In two strides, Jack had made it to her side and fell next to her on the mattress. The pale, ferocious light of a winter morning pierced the bedroom that during the night had become tainted with pure blood. In that cruel light, Jack took his Rose in his arms and they both cried until their hearts threatened to explode.

As the rest of the world awoke like every other morning and ignored all the horror coming from that tiny flat, two people who loved each other and a dead little girl with a love that no one else could ever understand clung to each other because they had just been stripped of everything else. A part of a man and a woman before thought immortal died in that harsh light of a December morning.


	6. Picking Up Scattered Pieces

**Enjoy it!**

The train station was cloaked in dreary predawn darkness. Like a banshee, eerie locomotive whistles moaned through the fog of early January and soft snow swirled from shadowy clouds that promised to bring a storm. There were few at the station in this ungodly hour of four A.M. The adventurous souls among those few were men cloaked in heavy, floor length black coats with collars turned upwards against a bitter wind or early morning laborers shivering in alleys, feebly attempting to catch a smoke and warm their weak insides before work started.  
One man, however, stood out from the rest. His deep brown coat was only waist-length and was pretty beat up. Underneath it was a thin, homespun dark blue shirt that did nothing to protect him from the cold. He was wearing brown, worn out trousers above heavy, untied leather boots. Unlike the others, he had no tired smears under his mystical blue eyes and was not stifling yawns. Unlike the others, he was on a mission – a mission of destiny.

Jack was not in a hurry. In a matter of fact, he hesitated as he eased up to the ticket booth. He knew he had to do what he had to do, but something inside of him still resisted. He also knew that his task was purely for Rose's benefit, and that was one of the only reasons that he defeated his inner desire to run away very fast.

His sole purpose for that early morning was to buy two locomotive tickets to Eau Claire, which was a mere buggy ride away from Chippewa Falls. Jack had no family there anymore, but he did have several friends and he was hopeful that his old house hadn't been torn down. He could not keep Rose in New York anymore. He couldn't stand it himself. There was nothing here for them but empty memories that hurt terribly and the grave of a daughter that had been taken from her parents.

He had not slept at all last night. As Rose peacefully dreamed beside him, one of the first nights she had not been torn awake with nightmares of her lost baby, he had weighed the action he wanted so desperately to take. There were ghosts waiting for him in Chippewa Falls, and he was terrified of them. They made his blood run cold. But at the same time, there had to be something better. Something more. And he wanted that something urgently for his wife, because she deserved everything he could get her.

He had lit out of that small town when he was fifteen without much of an explanation or a promise of ever returning. He assumed most of the town's occupants had pronounced him a foolish, grief-stricken boy who would be dead soon anyway. They had severely underestimated him, and in his time away he had learned so much, and had matured far beyond what was expected of him. Perhaps most importantly, he had fallen in love, and it was that love that was making him return.

He had fallen in love all over again with his parents, who had raised him and given him some lessons he could find no where else. He had fallen in love with a friendship that exceeded a miracle, that had given him a foundation and a place to run in a storm. He had fallen in love with the world, in all of its ugliness and hatred and beauty and paradise. But what had really altered the path of his destiny was the fact that he had fallen completely, totally, and irrevocably in love with a Rose.

He was no longer the boy he had been. His twenty-first birthday had just past, and he had been a man for many years before. There was no way someone could see what he had seen and not become a man.

The last time Jack had thought about being home so much had not been in America. It had been on a ship in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, lying out in the cool, crisp, salty sea air. He had been smoking, and now he remembered watching those misty clouds of cigarette smoke momentarily blot out the amazing masterpiece of white stars. The stars had awestruck him. There had been so many, thousands, millions even, weaving and winding and strewn across the blackest sky he had ever seen.

Now, even though it was dark as pitch outside, the pollution and electric lamps blocked out any sort of view of the heavens that he had. He felt trapped, completely and totally, and he had to get out. He did not know if returning to a place that still haunted his dreams was the best remedy for that, but he had no other choice. At least he had people there who could get him on his feet, and a shoe factory nearby that would employ him. There were no more options and by nature he tried to look at the bright side.

It was hard to find any sort of happiness that morning. He trudged up to the ticket booth, and he was aware of a sleepy looking man in a navy uniform with gold braiding standing safely out of the cold behind glass. A roaring woodstove belched a strong scent of embers and smoke into the air, and Jack coughed as it filled his lungs. He knew he was taking another step in life, a new step that would lead to a fresh beginning all over again.

For some reason that made him desperate. He hated the feelings inside of him all the time now, the feelings of darkness and doom and depression. But at the same time, he did not want to give away the only part of his life that mattered. He began to cling fiercely to memories, as he imagined some dark monster taking them away from him. As a result, they were taking Fabri from him. He began to shiver so hard that anyone glancing had to know it had nothing to do with the bitter chilliness. He grabbed at one of the last significant times he had spent with his friend, and as he began to relive the thought he realized he did not want to. His eyes burned as his throat began to become sore with unshed tears. It was too late, though. He couldn't stop remembering now even if he wanted to. His mind was spinning horribly out of control and he, powerless and defenseless, was forced to grit his teeth and hang on as his heart threw him on a murderous emotional ride.

_There was complete silence except for the soft snores of Erïk and Kraig, the two Swedes in the bunk across the room. It was late Saturday night, and Jack had just returned from changing back into his own clothes and thanking Molly for loaning her son's. _

_Jack quietly shut the door behind him and was greeted by two socked feet hanging over the edge of the bed above his. He stifled the urge to laugh and kicked off his own boots as Fabrizio de Rossi sat straight up with bright eyes that told Jack he wasn't about to fall asleep either._

_"Jack, you smell interesting_._ Like the daises of a field!" He teased, dramatically sniffing the air and throwing a hand over his head, pretending to swoon back onto his pillow._

_Jack rolled his eyes and hit his best friend on the shoulder. "Knock it off, you idiot," he muttered. He knew exactly what scent was on him and who the scent belonged to. In the matter of fact, she was all that was on his mind. He couldn't stop thinking of her. It was driving him insane. He could almost feel that celestial body pressed up against him and her soft hands in his as they danced and danced . . ._

_That silly lovesick look must have come over him again. Fabrizio winked at him and whispered, "Ah. You do not smell like daisies. I a' take it all back. You smell like . . . the Rose!" The warm brown eyes danced with anticipation at an angry comeback, but Jack couldn't muster one because it was true._

_He sunk to his bed, stripping off his shirt and tossing it into his bag on the floor in one quick motion. He looked down on his chest, right below the left part of his collar bone. While they were dancing, Rose had clutched at him so hard that she had left little half moon marks in his skin with her shapely nails. _

_He knew he was lost forever when he ran his thumb over the scars and sighed. There was something so intoxicatingly right about her, about him, and about them, He had been able to take her away from all of her pressures and problems just for a couple of hours, and what he had seen shocked him._

_The true Rose, the one that she hid from the rest of the world under lies and rules and restrictions of a Society determined to kill her, absolutely shone. It wasn't just spiritually, either, but her beauty simply sparkled. There was more luster in her deep green eyes, more pink to her blush, more excitement in her smile. Her laugh was not fake and orchestrated, but full and light, like tiny bells. And it was this Rose that he adored. _

_He had danced with hundreds of women. He had flirted with dozens. He had drawn countless. And yet not a single one of them, from Wisconsin to Paris to London, was as alive and fiery as this one trapped redhead that he was completely falling head over heels with._

_"Something special about _bella Rosa_, no?" Fabri asked quietly, hanging down over the rail on his bed and peering into Jack's face. When Jack looked up, he knew that Fabri probably knew more about his predicament than he did. Maybe he was partially in denial. That wouldn't surprise him. Part of him was desperately trying to stay above the surface of love, because he knew that he could never be with Rose. It was impossible. This was not some petty difference in clothes or taste or style or age. This was a true and undefeatable thing – Rose DeWitt-Bukater was from a level of status that he could only catch glances of every now and then. He had never even cared about those people before, but now he was forced to watch their every move as she drew him on like a fish on a line. He was worse than even the poorest people back home. He didn't have a job waiting for him, or a place to stay. Hell, he didn't even know if he wanted to go back to Chippewa Falls. He had been in the company of prostitutes. He was unworthy, unclean, unacceptable to her kind._

_He couldn't exactly put his finger on it, but she was so . . . different. His best friend was right. She was something special, but she might be even more than that. Something inside of him tried to fly out of his heart whenever he was with her and make its home in hers. It was taking all the strength he had to be around her and not make some sort of move. Yet it was simple to just be still, because he respected who she was and where she came from. She came from a place he could not go, and he from a place she had to stay away from._

_If only he could convince himself that it was that simple! If only he could keep that in mind whenever he got lost in her magnolia eyes and daydreamed about her ripe red lips! If only she didn't fit in so well, if only she didn't make his stomach flip flop when she was close to him, if only he didn't get passionate desires whenever she whispered in his ear, if only she would stay away, if only, if only, if only . . ._

_If only she wasn't his soulmate._

_That thought shocked him so terribly that he gasped and nearly fell out of the damn bed. He had never dared to dream that deep. He had never dared to think that maybe one day, she would be his. Just his. If God could give her to him, he couldn't think of another way to complete his life. Right now, she was his life. And that terrified him too._

_"Fabri . . . I think I'm in love with her!" He whispered urgently, looking up again at the Italian. There was a desperation in his brilliant blue eyes that had never been there before, a sort of plead for his friend to convince him otherwise even though he knew it was impossible._

_Jack had flirted. Jack had flatteringly raked girls with his black pupils before. He had felt lust building up in him when he looked a particularly pretty or scantily clad woman. He had even felt puppy love, the kind that schoolboys feel for the cute little girl next door. But never, not once, not even partially, had he ever felt that blinding, earth-shaking, mountain-moving sensation he had gotten when he met eyes with Rose. There was an invisible fire leaping from her magnolia green irises, sizzling on the currents of air, bounding the space between them, and scorching his heart. Forever and eternally she, knowingly or unknowingly, imprinted her picture on his mind and he would never be able to get rid of her. She stood like a princess of a lost people, on the deck above him, staring out over the ocean like she thought it might hold some sort of secret she hadn't been let into. Something about her had drawn him in immediately, shockingly, painfully, wholly. There was no turning back the second she turned the graceful waterfall of her neck to look at him, and some sort of chain had cuffed him to her._

_He had tried to make her leave his head that first night after he had just seen her. He was willing to do anything to get her out. He had gone and lay down on his bottom bunk with his sketchbook, flipping through all his drawings and telling himself that those were the loves of his life, not some upper-class snob. He had forced himself to remember Belle, the beautiful dark haired seductress whose hands he had captured so many times, or Flora, the lovely English girl with caramel curls. Flora he had never drawn, because he had never felt that sort of drive when he was with her to make her last forever on paper. She had been a gorgeous specimen of a young woman, barely eighteen, and they had messed around together last November. He would go to her flat, which was on the top story of three, and just like some sort of ancient Greek lover he would throw rocks at her window. When she was sure it was him she would come to the window and lean out, flirt fantastically from her perch on the windowsill, and eventually make her way down the fire escape out back to meet his waiting arms. However it soon became apparent to Jack that he held no real feelings for and was just lonely and wanted company. It had never turned even remotely serious and he stopped showing up, and she had never been able to find him. That was one of the reasons Fabri called him a heartbreaker now, even if he didn't think he fully deserved the title._

_But Rose . . . when he had first seen her, it was like a volcano in heaven had erupted and all of that celestial lava had set his heart afire. He could think of nothing else but that mysterious woman with the sad eyes and the wild red hair. It had become his obsession, an obsession with just a face and no name. Even if he had refused to recognize it then, and even if he didn't want to recognize it now, he had fallen in love at first sight. It had been incredible. Not a thing in the world could compare to it because never had he seen something so magnificent – that was the best word he could think of to describe her beauty. If Aphrodite herself had descended upon him at that moment, he would not have noticed or even glanced at her. Nothing could have compared to that tempting, haunting, glorious splendor that was just too blinding to try to move to paper. He didn't even attempt the transfer because in that moment his skills were nothing. They were pathetic in comparison to that lovely girl with fiery curls and alabaster skin, the one who was bathed in the golden sheen of midday on the Atlantic._

_He whispered curses quietly for his hopelessness. Never could Rose be his, but whether he liked it or not he would always be hers. He knew that, regardless of how long he had known her or how much information he still would have liked to hear about her. In the darkness, he saw Fabrizio shake his head, the tousled dark waves blacker than the night around him. There seemed to be an emotion in his chocolate eyes that told Jack that Fabri knew . . . maybe he had known before Jack admitted it himself. In one word, he completely summed up everything that Jack was turning over in his numb mind. "Destino?"_

_He looked up at his friend again, massaging his forehead with his fingers. Truth be told, he didn't know if he would recognize destiny if it stared him in the face. Yet maybe, just maybe, it had already stared him in the face, and if that was the case he could never let her go. Never. It scared him, because he knew such passion was bound to kill him eventually, and he didn't really want to die. For the first time in a long time, the thirst for adventure that he felt always and the hunger for something new that never left him were overshadowed by something greater, something that meant more. Something that towered in the form of a petite, ivory girl with bloody hair that hung in wild curls and who possessed haunted green eyes. He had felt the strongest desire to kiss her today, so many times, and it had nearly overwhelmed him. That was strange, because normally he was strong against that sort of thing._

_He was exhausted. It was hard for him to think this deep this late. "I dunno . . . I just don't know anymore." He paused for a minute, and Fabrizio's look seemed to beckon him to go on and explain further. He tried to organize what he was attempting to say but it didn't work. "I gotta see her again. I need to. I want to be with her all the time, I want to touch her, I want to hear her laugh. When I'm around her, I don't want her to leave, ever. I want to protect her, and I need her. I've never felt that way about a girl before. I need her."_

_Fabri seemed to get it. He himself had said that he had felt some sort of mystique around Rose the first time he had seen her, when she had come looking for Jack and interrupted their poker game. He had admitted that when she and Jack had talked there had been some sort of electricity rocketing around them, and, as he had put it, an invisible but blinding glow that had overflowed and splashed on him. He also recognized them to be meant to be something._

_The only question was, what something?_

_Desperate to rest his aching brain, Jack snapped off his suspenders and let them fall on his rumpled shirt. He shook his head back and forth and looked back up at the Italian. "What about you and Helga?" He asked, trying to change the subject in a vain attempt that his mind would take the hint and stop musing over Rose._

_A smile cracked on Fabrizio's face. His cheeks started to glow, and he looked like a schoolboy that had a crush on a little girl. Jack chuckled as he answered, "Ah, I don't know what she say, she don't know what I say. We get along fine!" But Jack knew there was something more to this amusing little story so he just waited patiently. It wouldn't be long before his friend had to tell him._

_"Stop staring at me a'like that!" Fabri muttered, glancing around nervously. A wave of hesitation crossed his face. "She only speak Swedish and German, I only speak Italian and English. Little English. But we did get along really well, and I was in the thought that the night was going good. So . . . I walked her to her cabin, or to the . . . the . . . the path? The . . .?" He hit himself in the forehead, and was again frustrated with his limited English vocabulary. Jack felt sorry for him, because he remembered how diligently Fabrizio had practiced his English every night, and he still hit these snags. So instead of making fun of him like he usually would have, he just helped him._

_"Corridor?"_

_"Yes, the corridor. I think she telling me her papa is staying in berths near us, with the men, but she's sharing a cabin with a group of the women. So we say goodnight, ciao. And at the last momento, I grab her and kiss her." He grinned sheepishly, as if he were amazed at his daring, while Jack could only whistle. "Not a long kiss, but she did not seem to mind too awful much. Then she ran away. If she did not mind, why ran away? I do not know these things." He buried his hanging head in hanging hands._

_Jack laughed again, and was promptly glared at. He realized that Fabri was serious, and he really didn't know. Now that Jack recalled, Fabri never really had been involved strongly in a girl, so he had no reason to know. "Well sometimes, most of the time, when you kiss a girl and she runs away, it means she's overwhelmed." He loosened his trousers and peeled back his cover to get in bed._

_"Overwhelmed?" Fabrizio asked quietly, not remembering this new word. Again anger at himself flashed in his coal eyes._

_"Uh . . . they can't take it. They're confused. They think they were too bold. It doesn't mean she doesn't like ya. I mean, hell, if she kissed you back I'd say she likes you a _lot_. Seems like you're further along with girls than I am, pal."_

_Now it was the Italian's turn to laugh, a laugh that came out as a giggle, and shake his head. "You aren't really in the thinking that la Rosa doesn't feel for you what you feel for her, no? I would chance that if you decided to kiss her, she would definitely not fight too terribly much, si?" He smiled, but didn't get one in return. This was apparently an interesting concept to Jack, who seemed lost in thought. He went on. "I seeing all of this desire inside of the lady, and you, Artiste, should see it too."_

_Jack nearly stopped breathing. He couldn't imagine Rose feeling that way about him. It was his dream, his want, his hope. But he knew it wasn't true. It was actually impossible, because she came from the gleaming sophisticated Society and was already promised to another man while he came from wading in rivers for things to sell, picking trash for food, smoking just to calm his nerves. But what if, just maybe, those barriers were not as strong as true love? Damn it. His mind was aching again. "Goodnight, Fabri," he murmured as he lay down to pretend to sleep on the soft standard issue blankets._

_He glanced out of the porthole at the black night. There was nothing but a sliver of white moon and a dusty trail of brilliant milky stars against the coal colored sky. He couldn't see or hear the water, but he felt its dark and comforting presence all the same. It was as if he were the only soul in the North Atlantic, all by himself, where time didn't exist._

_When he tore his eyes from the glass, he heard Fabrizio's breathing slow and steady. Absentmindedly, he traced the half moon scars on his chest. He was awake for hours and when a smudge of pinkish gold appeared on the horizon at dawn, he fell into a fitful sleep full of untamable fiery hair and haunting magnolia irises over ripe rosebud lips._

"Can I help you, sir?" The ticket man asked, sounding tired and somewhat irritated. He traced his stubbly mustache and beard with a finger and ran his free hand through matted sandy hair. There was an open book in front of him that listed places and times, probably available trains, and he had focused steel grey eyes curiously on Jack. Was he repeating the question? Had he asked another one?

Tearing himself from memories, Jack quickly recollected his purpose that dull, dark morning and the overbearing sense of duty resumed its place open his broad shoulders. Chippewa Falls was to be another chapter in his life. Briefly he had discussed the idea with Rose and knew that she too wanted out of the city, this goddamn city that imprisoned them with all of their empty memories and bleak past. They were two people meant to be together forever, and he was going to ensure her happiness in that fact.

"I . . . I need two train tickets from New York to –" He paused when he saw the man rustling through his book and scrolling an oily finger down neatly columns all printed in midnight ink. This was it. How many times had he stood in line, waiting to get out of some place and explode into a newer one? Now he was waiting to return home, if he could call Wisconsin home.

The clerk gazed at him impatiently over thick, rounded spectacles, waiting for Jack had to finish the sentence that would make his life change . . . yet again. He could see the gleaming train station back up north as though he were actually there. Bright, warm sunshine splashed off of the dark, cold metal of a locomotive and fell broken onto the platform, where dozens of people waited to board. Steam belched from the smokestack and the whole train vibrated like some living thing, while boxes and parcels and trunks sat on the loading platform and workers shoved them into an old car. His parents stood nearby, watching their son lap up his first sight of such an amazing –

"Sir? Your destination, sir?" There was obvious irritation in his voice and his fingertips found their way to the edges of his book, as if he were threatening to close it. Jack wanted to chuckle at such a stupid warning.

"Oh, sorry. Uh . . . Eau Claire, Wisconsin." The man totaled his purchase and made two tidy little marks with a fountain pen next to the precise words underneath New York that read the town Jack had named. Deep into the folds of pants pocket his palm closed around a clump of dollar bills that he had been saving since his wedding. He had even sold a few drawings. He had told himself he had done that because he needed the extra money, but even though he did, truthfully he had done it because he needed to. He needed to share his knowledge of things with the world, and that was his way of doing that.

"What date, what price, and under whose name should I register you?" The clerk's eyes never met his as he continued to scratch things out on a tiny piece of yellowed paper.

It wouldn't take them long to pack. All they really had was clothes. Everything else had been lost when . . . when . . . he didn't have the strength to remember right now so he moved onto the next thing in the apartment. They couldn't take the piano, and even if Tom gave them permission they wouldn't be able to afford shipping it. There were no paintings, no keepsakes, nothing that couldn't fit in a trunk or two. They just needed out, and they needed out now.

"Uh, Jack Dawson," he muttered, not willing to give Rose's full name to some stranger. Some people called him paranoid, but after all he had been through he knew that something you loved could be taken away from you before you could utter a sound and he refused to give that a chance to happen. She was so beautiful that she could tempt a completely honorable man to do things that the Devil himself would forbid. "We'll be traveling in the coach compartment, third class. And . . . I want to leave as soon as possible."

Unlike other third-class passengers, his voice held absolutely no remorse or shame when he announced that he had to ride coach. He was proud that they could afford tickets at all, and he remembered that his father had always told him to stand straight when he did something his best. He held no regrets about his position in life, he knew his hand of cards, and he played them well.

He stared at his hands while the man checked the next available train. They were broad, strong, lean from hard work. He had charcoal buried in his knuckles and around the edges of his fingernails. The calluses were smoothed over now, rough but slick to the touch. Life had been so simple back when the only part of his life had been these two hands.

"The soonest an engine bound for Eau Claire pulls into the depot is . . . two days from now. Thursday, January 9." He looked up curiously, waiting for his customer's answer and idly twirling his fountain pen between sleepy fingers.

Jack sighed and nodded. He wanted this, there was no doubt. He had to go back home. The thought scared him so much that there was an ache somewhere in his heart, an actual physical one, but he would endure that terror and that ache because Jack Dawson had always been a dreamer. He had always believed that there was something beautiful on the horizon and he had to get to it. He was willing to take risks and gamble his chances a little just to get one step closer, and this was simply another inch in the right direction. Somewhere along the way he had reached his goal, and now he was taking her to a place he felt would be better for her. It didn't matter what he had to loose in the process as long as she gained something in the end.

"Alright, sir. Your purchase will be eighteen dollars and fifty four cents. The train leaves on January 9 at eight o'clock in the morning." He held out his hand under the glass window expectantly. With his free one, he rubbed his eyes and then he let out a yawn which he tried in vain to hide.

Jack dug out the money, trying his best not to think. For once, just once, he wanted to be able to do the right thing without hurting or second guessing himself. He tried to turn off his mind and tried not to think deeply about what he was doing. It was just money, nothing more and nothing less. It had no meaning.

Yet somewhere in the back of his brain, he couldn't banish the thought that he was selling one life and buying a new one. He prayed that it was worth it, and that the trade was fair to his wife. He couldn't live if he caused her any more pain.

He slammed the paper notes and an odd assortment of coins on the wooden board, missing the man's hand intentionally. That sort of behavior disgusted him, and it was obvious the clerk caught on. His fingertips shrank back immediately and he sheepishly looked at Jack before cautiously slipping the money closer to him and in separate sorted drawers.

"Here are the tickets, Mr. Dawson," the man muttered, embarrassed. Two handwritten sections of paper with his name, the date of their departure, and their destination were held out to him, and he hesitantly grasped them. "You should arrive a tad bit early to stow your baggage. Just show those to whoever is manning this station at the time. Have a good morning, and if you have any questions feel free to come back." With a tip of his navy hat, the man retreated back into a different world, reading what appeared to be a book of poems and trying to keep himself awake.

It was done. That was it. Another chapter in his life had been ripped open. He pocketed the tickets as fast as he could, as if they were burning his fingertips. Then he swore to himself that he would shove it all out of his mind until he came home that evening. With sure steps he strode towards work, seeing the black smoke from the factory belching into the air roughly a mile away. He was hours early, but he thought that maybe he could round up some paper and charcoal to sketch with. If he couldn't do that, he'd bum a cigarette off of someone. He hadn't smoked in months, but damn, he needed to calm down. He couldn't steady his trembling fingers.

Victoria carefully sipped tea from the cracked cup on Rose's kitchen. She idly twirled a section of her hair around her finger, making little conversation, but every once in awhile Rose caught her searching Rose's eyes as if she were looking for an answer to some question that she was afraid to ask. The moment that Rose looked back, Victoria's deep brown gaze would drop to the table and she would examine the sandwiches before her with what seemed like great interest.

Rose knew Victoria was worried about her. Since Anna Jamie, Rose had not gone out of the house except to buy groceries. For the first week, it had not looked unusual because many people were driven inside by the bitter cold. But Rose had not been able to bring herself to visit the Benova's home a mere block away because the cut was still too deep and too fresh. She couldn't simply move on and go back into a normal routine. Nothing was normal anymore.

She assumed Jack had asked Victoria to come. The timid woman wouldn't have come calling on her own account. She would have been afraid to upset Rose and not willing to break Rose's dark days of mourning, for fear that she would be unwelcome.

Jack coped with loss in a different way than she did. He went on with his life, continued to be strong, and only let himself hurt in private. Little by little, step by step, he had mounted the stairs to a healing and was very close to letting his child go. At first Rose had refused to follow, refused to even try to fix something that she bitterly insisted remain broken. But, because he loved her, he had dragged her with him. She had kicked and screamed the whole way, and the stress on their marriage had been almost unbearable. Eventually she had seen that he too had pain shining out of his eyes, and he too cried quietly at night, and he too needed help to get through this. Very recently they had both begun to work together, and progress was being slowly and excruciatingly made.

There had been no funeral for her daughter, because there had been no life to remember. She wouldn't have been able to reminisce with her husband or with the Benovas or even with Charlie about how things had been. There had been nothing. Just a blue, empty, beautiful baby girl that had never even been given one breath.

Instead, she and Jack had buried their child, and their hope for a future with her, in the frozen, cold, hard dirt of a local cemetery. Dr. Zablowski had bought the plot for them, and he had even gone out with Jack to dig the six foot deep hole, since the cemetery workers wouldn't have dug a grave until April. Tom had purchased the casket, or so Jack had told her. She had not been there. It had been nothing but a rough cut pine box, because wood was impossible to find in the city in winter and they had taken leftovers. No one had been there but the Dawsons when the last clump of dirt was pressed into the earth over their baby. They had tied together slabs of wood to form a cross, and Jack had whittled out Anna's name and dates into the wood and securely buried it at her head. The laborers had stopped by to make sure that the grave fit regulations, and after seeing that it did, they had left.

Rose would never forget standing there over her child. She had not been able to cry. A lump of stone seemed to have held back all of her tears, or maybe she just hadn't had any anymore. She didn't know. Trying to ignore the pain, she had gone frantic about there not being any flowers. She wanted to lay flowers over the final resting place of her baby. She had screamed in agony about the blossoms, had pounded Jack's chest in fury. He had pulled her into his arms, with her still beating on him, and held her until she ceased and just became a heap in his arms. There had been no sobs, but the hurt silence spoke just as well as weeping would have and they stood there, entwined together, amidst dozens of other tortured souls that had lost and been lost.

That day had been a horrible day, the kind that she couldn't completely remember because her own mind had censored the anguish. But she would not forget saying goodbye to something she had never been able to welcome.

Victoria didn't seem to know what to say. There was nothing to talk about, nothing that would not stir the terrible past. After a long, quiet moment, Victoria finally opened her mouth and, following several attempts to speak, finally formed words.

"So how are you and Jack doing?"

Rose immediately thought of her mother, who had schooled her into asking such diplomatic questions. That question could be interpreted one of two ways depending on the mood of its recipient: Rose could take it as a subtle hint at inquiring about the recent awful events of her life or just simple, mundane conversation. Victoria could learn what she wanted to know and feel out if Rose felt like talking about it. Rose assumed that if she didn't, Victoria would simply let the topic slide and allow her to think that she had never meant anything by it in the first place. She decided to play it out and give her a little of both.

"Well, we've both been a little strained lately, as I'm sure you must know," she murmured, stirring her own tea and watching the amber brown swirl into paths across the liquid, "But we love each other enough to get over it. He's just a little stressed from his horrible job. He has started selling drawings again, though. Has he ever showed you any? He's quite a fine artist . . ." She trailed off faintly, her mind soaring back to the last time she had said that, and the different circumstances, but the same tone of adoration.

"Ah, I . . . I didn't know he sketched. You're a . . . a very lucky woman to have such a wonderful husband that stands beside you."

Rose gracefully hid the smile that was pulling the corners of her lips. She had succeeded in confusing Victoria, who didn't know what path Rose's answer had taken and thus didn't know what to say. Victoria was a nice woman, a kind, gentle-hearted lady, but they just didn't connect for some reason. They visited constantly because there was no other respectful female around for miles, but there was just no bond whatsoever. Tom and Jack had hit it off fine, and probably would have been best friends by now, but Jack held him away at arm's length because that spot was still filled by someone who did not have the physical life to fill it anymore.

She wouldn't think about that now. Fabrizio wouldn't _want_ her to think about that now. A strong bond had been tied between her and that stocky Italian man, a bond that ran through Jack and knotted around all three of them, with one more loop for a tall Irishman she had hardly even met. They seemed so terribly far away now; as if the events that had occurred just months ago were hidden behind some misty shroud that she couldn't pull back. She reached for those people and that place, because they had marked her life, and yet a cold fog would hide her view and she'd be groping for things she couldn't see. Then there were the nightmares . . . the awful horrible nightmares . . . and Jack's silent sobs at night . . . _No, Rose, _she told herself sternly. _You will not go back. You can't do this to yourself. You can't handle that much right now._ Calmly, she took a deep breath and ushered Fabrizio and Tommy back into the locked room of her mind, begging them to stay there until she had the composure to free them again. A sense of peace flowed over her and she leaned back into her chair.

"So . . ." Victoria's eyes wandered about the kitchen, trying to find anything to get away from this uncomfortable lull in an uncomfortable conversation. Her gaze seemed to fall on an old, greasy frying pan. "Oh, is that one of the new pans from the silver shop in the richer part of town? It's so beautiful, I wanted one for myself but Tom wouldn't buy it, he said we needed food, silly man, he eats as much as a horse and all our money goes down the pipes, but anyway, what a lovely pan! Let me take a look at it!" Under Rose's shocked stare, Victoria stopped blabbering and actually proceeded to hike her full skirts, lean down, and stare at the pan with wonder as if it were some jewel. Unbelievably, Rose could have sworn that she heard the woman "ooh" and "ahh" over the hunk of junk that was at least two decades old, had layers of hundreds of previous suppers from previous owners caked on it, and was cheap scrap metal.

For the first time in a long time, Rose's entire body shook with barely contained mirth. She had a hard time stopping the tears now, but finally, these were tears of laughter.

"Lunch break, boys! See you back here in exactly twenty minutes!" A deep, sandy voice boomed across the long, noisy hallway that contained rows of machinery. The second shift returned from their break at that exact moment, and through the clouds of soot and smoke they took over the first shift's positions so that the contraptions could continue to run nonstop. Red hot irons clanked incessantly on lumps of fabricated steel, quickly molding it into disfigured shapes that would be perfected later. Jack slid over to allow a big, burly man named Mac to control his station. All day, he used tongs to put the metal into a huge vat of water that cooled it, after which another worker would take the solidified shape and smack it back onto a long table surrounded by dozens of men. On this table, the steel would be poked, hammered, chiseled, polished, and oiled – eventually a part used in building a locomotive.

Mac ran a hand through his grizzly red hair, wiped that hand on his work pants, gave a slight nod to Jack, and took the tongs. A look of tedious dedication washed over his face, but Jack didn't stay long enough to observe any more. He hated this damn factory, with the air that was so hot and filthy it was almost a curse to breathe. He'd work himself into a very early grave, and he couldn't describe how happy he was to be leaving. Maybe he just wouldn't show up after today.

He stalked out of the main room, down several corridors, and into a small mess with narrow wooden tables. Cups of cold coffee, slices of stale bread, and portions of meat that had gone bad were all that were offered. Smart men brought things from home, but food was scarce and he wasn't going to take anything that Rose might need or even want. He told her that he was fine with the food there, and she seemed to accept that because it meant that she had to spend less money on groceries.

He picked a clump of bread that wasn't as hard as some of the others and coffee that wasn't complete slime and went to sit at a table of guys that didn't look like they were all hardened criminals or something similar. Harry, a man that Jack had slightly befriended, plopped down beside him and started tearing into a chunk of stuff that looked kind of like ham. Jack shook his head.

"Well, Dawson," Harry shouted to have his speech with the English lilt heard over the dull noise of machines and other loud conversations, "How's the gorgeous lady doing?"

Harry had only seen Rose once when she had come to the factory to meet Jack on his walk home. It had been last October, she had been having a particularly painful day with memories, and she needed him. He remembered how poised and elegant she had appeared when she had spotted Jack and stood from a wrought iron bench to glide to him. Giving off the very essence of high class, she had laced her arm through his and allowed him to quickly introduce her to Harry Schneider, to whom she had graciously engaged in a light and brief conversation. But the look in her magnolia eyes had screamed pain, and Jack had hastily excused them and led her away. The minute they were out of sight, she had dissolved into sobs and fallen into his arms.

"She's . . . getting better, I guess." He sighed in a helpless sort of way and began to pull layers off of the bread clump. "She's been through an awful lot." He meant more than Anna, he meant more than _Titanic_, he meant more than loss. He meant the sheer weight of having it all thrown on her in one year, and the torture of being unable to remove it but forced to learn to live with it. He had told nobody about _Titanic_.

"So have you, mate." Harry laughed good-naturedly, trying not to loose Jack to a cauldron of memories, and clapped him heavily on the back. Then, taking on a more serious tone he added, "Just make sure you don't let the woman go. She's got more than beauty; anyone with a pint of a brain can see that. And she loves you." He smiled and turned back to his synthetic ham.

Rose sighed as she lifted a dress from the beaten up wardrobe in the corner of her bedroom and folded it carefully, as she had seen Trudy do hundreds of times. It was six-thirty in the morning, and she had packed almost everything last night. Unfortunately, she had allowed herself to lie down and stretch out for a moment just to rest, and of course she had fallen asleep. Jack hadn't woken her and likewise she now did not wake him as she gently lowered the frock into one of two beaten suitcases that lay flung open on the musty floor. They had showed up mysteriously on her doorstep yesterday afternoon and she assumed that the Benovas had something to do with it.

She pulled out her traveling outfit of choice, which was the warmest thing she had – a white dress that only provided three-quarter length sleeves, but its hem fell below her ankles. Victoria had given it to her a week ago, claiming that she didn't need it and that the color white wasn't flattering on her, but Rose strongly suspected that she couldn't fit into it anymore or she felt sympathy for the Dawsons, who were in financial straits worse than any she and her husband had ever been in. Perhaps both. It didn't matter anyway. She was grateful for the dress and wasn't about to turn her nose to a free offering of clothes. She had labored to sew several shirts for Jack and recently her attempts had taken a turn for the better. They were not hideous anymore, simply awkward, so she devoted all her spare time to perfecting them. She didn't have the opportunity to worry about herself.

Deciding that she should change as soon as possible so she could pack her nightdress, she slipped into the tiny bathroom and shut the door so as not to wake Jack. With a flick of her fingertips, cold water was trickling out of a rusty pipe and she splashed some on her face.

Chippewa Falls. She had never thought that some tiny town in Wisconsin would be the place where she would spend her years, raising children, and growing old. Yet the more she thought about it, the more any opposition to the idea dissolved. She had this strange longing to see the place where Jack had grown up, to see a part of him that she hadn't ventured into. She knew little things – his favorite colors were black, because he could do anything with that color of charcoal in his hand, and he stubbornly insisted that he also loved green, the color of her eyes. He had left his home when he was fifteen. He hadn't had any siblings, and neither had his parents. He wanted to live in a place with open air. He loved adventure. But what she really wanted and needed was to have his entire past meld into one with hers, and she knew that could be accomplished by finding that past. For the first time since Anna, she was filled with a giddy excitement of things yet to come and a happy apprehension of learning lessons that she had never heard of before. Only Jack could do that to her. Only Jack could help her let Anna go.

Balancing carefully so she wouldn't fall over in the little space and make any undue noise, she changed and folded her nightclothes neatly on the floor. Surprisingly, the dress was an exact fit and rather comfortable. She began to think that maybe Victoria had bought it specifically for her and inwardly spat at the idea of charity, but accepted that as a possibility none the less and put it out of her mind.

She ran a brush through her long blood-colored curls. It was far too cold for her to tie them up, so she left them down and decided not to care how uncivilized it looked. She was far, far past caring about appearances and Society. Critically, she examined herself in the spotted looking glass that was spidered with cracks. The neckline was quite low, and in the bitter cold of winter that was not a good thing. She had no choice, but she cast a disapproving eye at her reflection as if she expected it to pull out a more appropriate garment. It didn't, and she sighed in defeat as she pushed open the door from the dark bathroom into the equally dark bedroom.

There was desperation in her silent movements as she raked through her wardrobe, looking for a coat that she had bought at a thrift shop several months ago when coats were not in high demand. If she couldn't find it, then she would surely freeze to death before they even boarded the locomotive. Her breathing began to accelerate and she realized she was dangerously close to hyperventilating when sweat began to bead on her forehead despite the chilly January morning air.

She stepped back for a moment, clamped one hand over her mouth, and rested the other on her stomach. Her eyelids fluttered closed briefly as she began to regulate her breaths. _You're with Jack_, she murmured in her head over and over again. _Nothing can possibly be that overwhelming. He's here. He'll take care of it. Calm down._ Her roaring headache began to subside as a love that was irrevocable suddenly poured out all over again and, once more, it was the only thing that truly mattered.

"Good_bye_, leaky apartment," Jack cried out in triumph as he easily lifted the two suitcases over the threshold and onto the sidewalk outside. His ocean blue eyes danced, and Rose found herself perilously drowning in them again. His mood was contagious and she couldn't help but laugh. A silver ribbon of warm air colliding with a frosty mass lazily curled upwards from her lips, as if personifying the laugh itself.

Thankfully, she had been able to find it – a cream colored, ankle length coat with white lace trimming the edges and white flower patterns intricately stitched into the thick, soft fabric. There were no beads, so of course most women in upper class hadn't really given it a second glance, but there had been no true reason for it to be marked down as low as it was. She guessed there had been some mistake in the pricing, and she recalled the clerk had told her that it was his first day working there. He must not have known enough about the piece to check it. That in itself was a small miracle, because due to that Rose would be kept warm and safe throughout a winter even in Wisconsin, which shamed winters in New York.

"Would you like to do the honors, my love?" Jack asked in an extremely terrible English accent, making a slight bow towards the door. He couldn't hide the grin that played on the corners of his mouth, even when he pulled the collar of his dark brown coat up to attempt to conceal his face.

Rose always held herself with a stately and dignified posture, but catching onto his game, she dramatically lifted her nose to the air and reached out an elegant hand to the cracked and faded doorknob. Then, with a devilish grin, she yanked it shut as hard as she could and literally sent the building shaking. In that moment, a rush of something heavy escaped her. In that second, a terrible pressure that had been building suddenly snapped. For some reason the air around her seemed fresher than it usually was and the pure white snow that drifted lazily down from cottony skies seemed more beautiful than she remembered.

She had kept herself imprisoned inside of this little, rundown flat for far too long. After awhile, so many painful events and thoughts had been sewn into the walls of her apartment that she had not been able to escape, and eventually she had convinced herself that she didn't want to. But strangely the ember inside of her that had been dying was without warning fueled into a leaping, hot, dancing mass of boiling orange and yellow flame the minute that door was shut. She knew she would never have to open it again, and it would lie peacefully somewhere in the realms of her mind along with everything else she had endured.

A true smile finally gleamed on her face, and her magnolia irises glittered. "I can't wait!" She suddenly cried out, her cheeks flushed pink. Something wonderful, something like a promise, sizzled the icy air and she leapt into Jack's waiting arms. As he lifted her off the ground and crushed her too him, she murmured every sweet word of thanks that she could think of and didn't notice when his magnificent blue eyes filled with tears of disbelief. Then, still dangling above the sidewalk, she pressed her lips to his and hungrily filled him with every emotion she had right then, emotions of excitement and awe. Their kiss ignited things that they had painfully forgotten over the last month, and Jack lost all sense of time. There was no such thing as Time, or Place, or anything else that didn't have to do with this gorgeous angel that was up against him like this. He tangled his hands through her loose fiery hair as she wrapped her arms around his neck, and the kiss she had intended to be brief lasted for at least ten minutes. They'd never truly know. The only thing Rose knew was that her entire body was trembling when he finally pulled away, he had crushed her against the rotting brick wall, and they were both breathing very shakily and heavily into each other's faces. Reaching up with a wavering hand, she brushed a strand of blonde hair from his face and kissed his bowed forehead gently. He cupped her face with his free palm, the other arm pinning her against him and the building. Each stroke of his fingertips made her trembling become noticeably worse, and soon she could hardly stand.

"Let's get goin', shall we?" It was hardly a whisper in her ear, but somehow she heard it over the roar in her head. She saw the smoke of desire in his eyes, and she knew it was mirrored in their own, but they both let go of the feeling with great difficulty, knowing that nothing could be done to tame it. She licked her burning lips and nodded with difficulty, pushing against him to free herself. He wouldn't let her go at first, and claimed her mouth with another kiss, but this one was sweet and brief.

Soon they were walking with Rose's arm looped through Jack's and both of his hands each grasped around separate handles of two full-to-bursting suitcases. The train station was a mere half-mile away, as they were constantly reminded by the scream of engines arriving and departing from one of the busiest stations in New York City. The hard snow beneath their feet crunched loudly with each step they took.

When they passed the Benova's small duplex, Rose was the first to see Tom and Victoria waiting on the porch covered in several layers of warm clothes. They seemed to be waiting for the Dawsons, and in a moment they were slipping down the steps and across the icy sidewalk.

"You've only just gotten here, and now you have to leave already!" Victoria almost seemed to be in tears as she threw herself at Rose, who had not been expecting the embrace and would have toppled over had it not been for Jack's support to her frame that was unseen by the others. "Why are you going? I've heard that Jack's doing wonderful at his job, and we'll cut down the renting rates if you want us to!"  
Tom looked sharply at his wife, and Rose could tell that he didn't agree with her. There was a warning in his eyes that Victoria obviously saw, but she pretended she didn't, and searched Rose's eyes for an answer.

Rose had never wanted to live in New York. She had been offered no choice at the time, with the financial strain and . . . well, and a baby on the way. But so many things had changed since then, from saving up every penny to the loss of something so dear and close to her. Everything was closing in on her, and she had to get out. Again, just in the nick of time, Jack had shown her an escape route which she fully intended to pursue.

She couldn't believe that she was leaving the east coast. All of her life, except for the brief six month stay in England after her father had passed, she had been forced to live in Philadelphia among Society and the privileged; she had been threatened into bearing yachts and cotillions and debuts and balls. There had actually been a time, long ago when she was a little girl, that she had looked forward to these high class parties that made her feel like some princess out of a fairytale. She had allowed her mother's maids to dress her up until she was dripping with lace, beads, silk, velvet, and jewels. But the lovely innocence of her childhood had eventually faded and with it faded the fakeness of wealth, leaving nothing but ugly, exposed lies and ego. She had wanted so desperately to get away.

Now was her chance to completely leave that entire area behind. She could leave the rich bastards of Philadelphia and the dirty, prostitute-infested streets of New York City in her past for good. There was not a single doubt in her mind. "I'm sorry, Victoria, but Jack and I need to get . . . away."

A disappointed understanding crept into Victoria's expression and she hugged Rose tightly. "Good luck, and don't forget to write. It's been wonderful getting to know you," Mrs. Benova murmured, directing her sentence at both Rose and her husband.

Tom was much more dignified and formal in his farewells. He shook Jack's hand and lightly kissed Rose's. "I'm sure Wisconsin will treat you fine, fine, fine, chap," he exclaimed to Jack as he clapped him on the back. "But don't haste to forget that, if things don't work out, we'll always have room for you two here." As he finished his sentence, he pulled Rose into one last embrace and told her one last time that she was beautiful. Jack smiled good-naturedly, but Rose could see a small flash of what could be wariness fade into his irises. Victoria, on the other hand, openly echoed the sentiment.

Feeling like a smothered puppy, Rose graciously thanked them, said final goodbyes, and walked into the light swirling snow towards the train station with Jack and the suitcases close behind. They never saw the Benovas again.


	7. Facing Broken Ghosts

The entire passenger car smelled like a strange mixture of booze, stale cigarette smoke, perfume, and cold winter air. Designs made by frost were etched in the window beside Jack, and when he breathed warm steamy clouds of moisture accumulated on the glass.

They had been given the option of stowing their luggage underneath the car, but Jack hadn't trusted the workers, who looked like they had just gotten out of prison. They had hungry expressions on their faces, dark smudges under hollow eyes, and dirt-smeared clothes and skin. Instead he had carried the suitcases up the steps himself and strapped them in with frayed buckles in a luggage rack. They sat there now, being jostled against the restraints as the train bumped along.

Rose had asked to sit in the aisle seat because it was warmer there than near the window. Now she traced little circles on Jack's shirt, cautiously observing their fellow passengers. One woman in particular caught her attention. She was still very young and fairly pretty, with sandy blonde hair twisted up atop the crown of her head and a complexion almost as porcelain as Rose's own. She was dressed in a deep green frock, and the only sign of age was in the tired way she looked at what was around her. She was balancing two little girls on her lap, one who didn't even look like she was even a year old and one who was maybe three. There was a boy sitting on the second seat in her row, who appeared to be eight or nine. He was keeping himself occupied with a bit of string where he was practicing different knots. The older girl was completely intoxicated with the sticky mess of candy, and Rose noticed that her mother had to dodge the gooey hands that reached for her hair. The little baby, who was draped in a pink blanket that had faded pinkish-grey, was fast asleep in the crook of her mother's arm. A pang of longing shot through Rose's heart, but she pushed it away. She wouldn't fall apart again, and especially not here, of all places.

They would arrive late tomorrow morning, if she remembered what Jack had said. For now, there was nothing to do but wait. She glanced past Jack, who appeared to be deep in thought, and watched the miles of city fly past the glass. The buildings eventually spread out and became less grand, and soon they had vanished altogether and there was nothing but farmland and an occasional barn or farmhouse.

Jack felt Rose's curious stares that she shot in his direction, but his heart was heavy and he knew that if he turned to her now he would betray his fear. That was something he refused to do, no matter what. He spent the first two hours of the trip trying to get some sort of control over his skyrocketing emotions, taking himself from Heaven to Hell and back again. It suddenly struck him that he didn't know where his parents were buried. He hadn't stuck around long enough to find out. That had been one of the first things he had wanted to do when they finally arrived in Chippewa Falls – find his parents. He knew he'd get to them eventually, but without warning he saw what a horrible son he had been. His duty to his parents hadn't just ended when they had died; he had been silently given the solemn task of making sure they were laid to rest, and he hadn't done it. He had failed his mother and his father both all at once.

He knew that tears were trying to push themselves onto his face, but he refused to give them the satisfaction and instead sat there like a stone statue, afraid to move. If he did move, he was sure that his precarious position would be lost and he would be left to drown in his confusion. However, despite his best efforts, he soon felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and he knew Rose knew that he was struggling. He tried to ignore that hand, tried to pretend nothing was wrong, because he was still too scared to look at her.

But then Rose's soft lips lightly touched where her hand had been, the lips that said without uttering a sound that she was not going to leave him hurting like this, and he couldn't hold out for much longer. He felt like he had been punched in the stomach, like something inside of him had left him. Maybe it was guilt, or maybe it was happiness, he was too terrified to find out what had gone.

There was still a patient concern that he could feel from coming from his wife, and when her palm roamed questioningly over his chest he couldn't help himself anymore. He turned towards her, and she saw in that one second every single one of his bitter fears and resentful memories. Her eyes suddenly mirrored the pain he knew was in his own, and his heart told him that she had taken his burden to bear with him. That made him so grateful to have her, to love her, and to be loved by her that all he was capable of doing was allowing her to quietly bring her to him and lay his head in her lap. She stroked his hair comfortingly as he covered his face with his hands to keep from sobbing.

Dusk had faded into black as the train determinedly continued to creep forward across the country throughout the night, its yellow headlights throwing evidence of human existence towards land that looked like it had not been changed since the beginning of time. Wintry forests broke into icy grassland just to resume again a few miles later as the engineer deftly picked his way through, over, and beyond the treacherous Appalachian Mountains.

Rose was drifting in and out of an uncomfortable sleep. There were no beds, only the hard wooden seats, and her entire body felt like it was in a cramp from staying in one position for so long. She yawned, and saw that finally the three children had nodded off and their mother, who had earlier looked like she was about to cry, was finally able to settle in herself. There was absolute silence in the compartment. The steady grinding of the wheels on the track and the shaking of rushing metal were the only sounds that made their way through the thick walls and windows.

She managed to catch a glimpse of the amazing winter sky that was awash with billions of glittering, twinkling stars. There were so many that in places there appeared to be huge splotches of white, like a baby had spilt milk. They cast an unearthly glow onto the meadow that they were currently cutting through, making everything appear ghostly. It all looked so majestic that she involuntarily gasped, thinking that she had never looked at the stars in that way before. In Philadelphia and London, the stars hadn't mattered. It had been irrelevant how awesome they looked or how bright they were because no matter what, her life was still going to end up being hell. She hadn't had the strength to look up at something so beautiful, since she had convinced herself that beauty did not truly exist. How could she have ever done that to herself? How could she have deprived herself of life and love and laughter? She had been so terribly close to dying . . . to being nothing but a listless shell where a person should have been.

She then tore her eyes from the heavens to look at a much more magnificent sight, one that was right next to her. A tender smile crossed her face as she studied the scene as if she wasn't really a part of it at all, as if she was just allowed sight into a brief foretaste of a perfect eternity. An unbelievably handsome artist was folded up in the seat beside her. His head was propped against the window, bumping along with each movement of the engine. The blonde hair that gave him an innocent boyish appearance was mussed over his face and his eyes were closed. One of his hands was tightly grasping her own, even in his sleep. His chest rose and fell with deep, dreamy breaths against his homespun soft, cheap cotton shirt that was dyed a fading navy. She lightly ran her free fingertips over the muscles in his arms, afraid to touch him for some reason, like he was a dream and not her husband.

He shifted slightly and a silent sigh escaped from his lips. Suddenly he became human again, a human that she loved desperately and could never be could enough for, but a human nonetheless. Without warning, a thick exhausted feeling threw itself over her, and she gently allowed her head to fall upon Jack's shoulder. His coat that he had covered her with to warm her against the bitter winter chill was doing its duty and locking in her body heat. Finally somewhat comfortable, she breathed in his rich scent of sandalwood and sunshine and charcoal as she began to drift off but was jarred awake by something that made a soft smile appear on her face. Drunken with sleep, his arm hurriedly and unconsciously reached out and wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her even closer to him and burying his face in her bloody curls. She felt her heart bursting again with passion and adoration that reached to the deepest depths of her soul. God, she loved him so. She was dangerously close to tears of devotion, and she didn't want to wake him with sobs. Instead, she kissed his cheek before laying her head back down, and quickly she fell into the relaxing land of dreams next to her love of this life and all the lives after this.

The harsh, bright light that only winter could bring seared through Jack's eyelids, yanking him out of a deep, actually comforting sleep. He wanted to know what time it was. That was the first thought that hit him as he floated awake.

Suddenly the other thought came, the one he had toyed with as he had fallen asleep last night. Today he was returning to Chippewa Falls. _Today_. He took a deep breath and ran his shaky hand through his hair.

He wasn't ready to think about that yet. Instead, he looked over at a Rose who, even though she was still dreaming, managed to look absolutely ravishing. She was clutching at his shirt with limp hands, and her fiery curls spilled over his chest and down to his lap as her head rested on his shoulder, which was beginning to ache. However, no matter how much it hurt, he didn't have the heart to wake her.

He had not envisioned his going back home to turn out this way. A year ago, he had thought there would be a heavily-accented Italian man slumped in the seat next to him instead of a magnificently gorgeous woman who happened to be his wife. He had imagined them dividing up the last pack of cigarettes they had between the two of them from the last drawing he had just sold, but he had not smoked for months.

He closed his eyes and willed with everything within him that, for once, he could have his way. It was selfish, he knew, but he wanted to blink and see Fabrizio in the next row, staring tenderly at the seen of two lovers and giving Jack a hearty wink or a silent chuckle. He was begging God that Tommy would be there too, looking enviously at the red-headed beauty, fishing cards out of some deep pocket so he could start a round of poker. He kept praying this for so long that it almost seemed true. He could almost here a soft, melodious conversation between two people who he knew were dead.

"Jack?" Rose murmured sleepily, burying her face in his arm and then yawning gently. Jack's eyes snapped open and he turned to look at her as if she were pointing a gun at his head. She gave him a curious stare, and he exhaled loudly. She had scared him, because for a minute he had forgotten what was real and what wasn't.

"What is it?" She asked quietly, searching his face for anything that gave him away, but unlike last night he would not let her in and she saw his need to be strong. When he told her nothing, she knew better than to pursue it, but she also knew better than to believe him. A strange look crossed his deep blue eyes, as if he was trying to make it impossible for her to read his soul. In that second as he drew the curtains down, she could see the depths of his adoration for her, so immensely enormous that she couldn't find the bottom of his feelings. Maybe there wasn't any bottom. She saw herself reflecting from those pools of ocean, and finally she understood that she was all he saw now and forever.

He cast a guilty glance at the floor, as if she had caught him doing something expressly forbidden, and that made her heart break. She didn't know what she had done to make him feel that remorseful when all he had done was let her simply see all of the love he held for her. But suddenly that guiltiness was gone as quickly as it had come, and deep inside of him she managed to find a broken man, the only thing holding him together being absolute adoration for her, because of her.

She smiled at him, a magical smile that told him she would never leave him, no matter how much he blamed himself, no matter how often he let himself slip back into the past, no matter how horrible of a person he believed himself to be. She was the only soul on Earth who could convince him that it wasn't his fault. It wasn't because of him that his parents were dead, or that his best friend was dead, or that his child had never breathed. It wasn't his fault that the same glassy look of regretful pain that he wore in his eyes was buried deep within her own heart and that it was impossible to ever get rid of. It just wasn't his fault.

There was a grateful emotion that washed over his face, and he knew exactly what she was telling him, even though there were no words shared between them. He took a deep breath and, trembling, reached out a hand to touch her cheek. She kissed his palm, and he closed his burning eyes just to regain control over his feelings. Then he brushed his lips against her forehead and it was a mutual, silent agreement between the two that they were going to make it to Chippewa Falls, and they were going to arrive there completely intact.

He hadn't seen this train station since the night he had fled. For some reason, perhaps because of the hurt that had been in his heart last time he had been here, he had unintentionally expected the people to be more somber, more quiet, maybe draped in black . . .

It shouldn't have shocked him to find that the bustling travelers were just as obnoxious, loud, colorful, and flustered as they had always been. It seemed as if almost everyone was late and they all appeared to be running, even if they didn't look like they had a particular place to go.

The station itself surprisingly just appeared, breaking up the tiring miles of nothing but the green plains stretching on and on forever, reaching to the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. The grasslands were lush in the summer, unlike most others, and covered with a fair amount of tall and stately trees. Yet now, in the winter, a blanket of thick snow had fallen over the ground and choked the color and vibrancy out of all the plants. There was nothing but grey, white, black, and a painfully blue sky. It seemed out here that humanity didn't exist, and it was alarming to suddenly have a place full of people pop up in land that had seemed empty.

He heard the passengers beginning to unsettle, grabbing trunks and boxes and bags, gathering children, cleaning up old whiskey bottles, downing one more gulp of alcohol before they got off of this horribly tedious train ride. Next came the sounds of the engine's wheels screeching against metal as the engineer abruptly braked and the huge iron beast began to come to a deafening halt.

Jack found himself silently begging the conductor to just fly right by Eau Claire, perhaps forget all about this stop, and keep going and going all the way to California. He was filled with that emotion of suffocation that had plagued him when he had first left and he began to panic again. With each steady thud of the train slowing down to a crawl, his heart began pumping faster and faster. He didn't know what he had been thinking. No way had he been prepared to confront his yesterdays like this, no way did he want to visit these ghosts again, no way would he survive another –

"Jack? Jack? Darling, it's okay. It's alright. I'm here."

He heard the note of concern in his wife's voice and suddenly realized that he had been gripping his seat so hard that his knuckles had turned white and he was breaking out in a sweat despite the absolute terrible cold in Wisconsin. His breathing had been coming out way too ragged and way too fast.

Her arms crept around him again, and she embraced him with a hug full of so many fears and worries and wonders and hopes that he shuddered. He looked into her magnolia eyes, filled to the brim with trust above all other things, and he felt his entire body relax. There was one huge thing that divided this time from last time. He had an angel with him now, a woman that would stand by him no matter what, regardless of what happened or why.

"Thank you," he whispered into her ear, and he knew that he meant it when the slamming in his chest was not because of nervousness, but for a wholly different reason, something that had to do with being this close to a Rose that could kill him with that look she was giving him now.

"It's just your past, Jack," she murmured as the locomotive finally crawled to a stop and the fear began to rear its ugly head in Jack's irises again. "It's just your past."

He sighed deeply and nodded, staring out the ice-encrusted window.

"Here, sir, and accept our gratitude," Rose gasped, not because the words were too terribly important or hard to say, but because Jack had just opened to cab's door and the awful cold had swept into her lungs again, making speaking difficult. She rummaged into Jack's pocket before he could step out, which resulted in him being pulled down from midair as he attempted to get up and landing spread eagled on Rose's side. She didn't seem to notice and managed to succeed in finding the dollar and ten cents charge for transportation service and the ten cents for tip. She swore she saw the driver stifling a hearty laugh as he tipped his cap towards her and threw the change into an already half full cup of coins.

Jack cursed softly, his face turning a magnificent shade of red when he realized he had, grinned sheepishly, and stepped out into the snow that had already been packed by many other motorcars and footprints. As he went around to the other side of the automobile, he absolutely refused to lift his eyes from the ground. He would not allow himself to soak in his childhood home until he was ready, but in his mind's eye he already knew what was around him – one long, frosted street dotted randomly on each side with several small wooden houses, a general store and a bank on the corner, and rows of stark and dead-looking but enormous trees growing wildly among the small town clutter. Further along the dirt road that curved past the frozen Lake Wissota, there was the white-washed church that he had said goodbye to his parents in five and a half years ago.

Yet all of this he saw from memory, and even as he heard a few people scurrying past him he pressed back the urge to glance and see who they were. He was afraid, and he admitted it without any reluctance whatsoever. Being afraid was not something to be ashamed of, he knew that – shame came from the rash actions that developed as a result of fear. He forgot who had told him those words, probably his father, but he continued repeating them in his brain again and again to keep himself under control.

His numb hand found the icy handle of the side door and carefully pulled it open as he stepped back, concentrating with all his might on the car, on the chipped paint, on the rustling fabric as a woman inside positioned herself to get out. Little things that he could handle were the only things he allowed to enter his mind. Stubbornly he pushed the rest out, even if for just one more moment of peace. Rose carefully climbed from her seat out into the freezing cold and onto the slick dirt road covered in layers of ice. She gasped as one of her small, old shoes slipped and she began to fall, but Jack, who had been staring at her with all of his power, threw out his arm and grabbed her around the waist before she even had the slightest opportunity to catch her balance. Then a sudden, beautiful, and strange sound penetrated the air, a sound that didn't match Jack's emotions at all. It took him a minute to realize that it was Rose's pleasing laughter. He couldn't keep a small grin from cracking on his own face when he saw her delighted expression as she shook a few flakes of light snow out of her wild red curls. The happiness and energy that so plainly was filling her heart calmed him down, and he took a deep breath and closed the door behind her.

She gazed into his icy blue eyes, and she saw fear. Desperately, she tried to think of something, anything at all, that she could do to help him, but the frantic realization that she couldn't do anything except just be here slowly dawned on her. She wasn't part of his past, and the fact that he had to hurt pained her just as much. There was a tenderness in her expression as she searched his face, trying to comfort him somehow.

Almost without warning, Jack felt ashamed. He saw how much Rose was agonizing over him and white hot anger at himself burned his insides. What kind of man was he? He couldn't even bear his own childhood on his shoulders. He couldn't even spare his Rose from his own ghosts. The one thing he loved with more than just love was always the one thing he inflicted the most disastrous pain on, and he hated it almost as much as he had ever hated anything in his entire life.

Before he could say he was sorry and beg her forgiveness and try urgently, but hopelessly, to pretend like nothing was wrong, she had stood on tiptoe and pressed her warm lips to his forehead, a wordless gesture of adoration and a promise that she wasn't about to leave him like this. Her slender fingers interlocked with his rough ones, and she met his steel blue eyes with her deep green gaze. As the cab slowly drove away and the town became more impossible to avoid, Rose whispered, "I'm right here, Jack, right here."

He bit his lip and swore to himself that he would not cry. Jack Dawson was a twenty-one year old man who had been through enough to kill him and he had toughened with each year. He could comfort dying people in alleyways without shedding a tear, he could say goodbye to his parents in a church without breaking down, he could face death without a stitch of panic. But right now, there was a woman standing beside him who he loved more than his own life, a woman who had shed all of her innocence so quickly and become so strong in the face of so much pain. Yet a gentleness still burned within her, a softness that somehow managed to get through all of the layers of hardness that the world had put around his heart.

He closed his eyes and lifted his face up to feel the cool breeze he hadn't felt in six years, to breathe in air he had sworn he would never touch again, and to stop tears from falling. Finally, when the tight pressure in his throat was gone and his eyes had stopped burning, he looked shakily back down at her pure face and murmured, "I know."

She smiled then, a brilliant smile, and he knew that any of his demons that were faced with that smile didn't stand a chance. She leaned against him as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and they slowly made their way down the narrow street coated in white.

The cold had the few brave people outside so bundled up that Jack couldn't even tell if he recognized them or not. He wasn't looking too terribly closely, because that struggling piece of him was still comfortably lounging in ignorance. He left it there for the time being.

His footsteps rehearsed a path that they had walked on so many times before in what seemed like another lifetime ago, but in reality had just been a few years back. He wondered if everyone thought he were dead. Several times since he had left and once in particular, he had thought he was dead too. But here he was, whole, healthy, and not alone anymore. Rose, on his side, seemed contended to simply follow him and not ask where they were going, trusting that he knew well enough for the both of them. Instead, she was drinking in all of the sights, watching the silver clouds slide lazily above them and drop more and more snow upon the little town. Each building she fixed her gaze curiously on, and he decided to take her and show her around after he had finally become at ease. He hoped it wouldn't take too long.

Something pushed against his mind, something about a promise he had made to Fabrizio that involved this place, but he wouldn't let it in. It battered against the walls of his brain, yet stubbornly he kept it out because he knew that he couldn't take any more, he couldn't handle another knife to his heart right now. He apologized profusely, if silently, to his best friend in this world and all the worlds after, and begged that he just wait a little longer, and for some reason the storm raging inside of him quieted a little.

Rose's hand idly found his and laced in and out of his fingers as her eyes were drawn to his, almost as though magnets were bringing her to him. She smiled a slight reassuring smile as, inside, she prepared herself to meet her husband's past. He had told her enough for her to know that this was impossibly hard for him, almost impossible, and she made sure that he never forgot that he was there. She knew what it was like to feel like one was suffocating, to not be able to escape from something . . .

And suddenly, like often these days, her memory began to race back in time, rewinding back and back until she was caught in this flashback so horribly that she could smell the aromas and taste the sensations and hear the sounds that she hadn't heard for more than nine months, and it scared her, but she couldn't stop it. Her grip on Jack's hand tightened and her breathing accelerated as she was hurled back to another place.

_It was a beautiful night, there was no arguing that. Stars like Rose had never seen before in her life were burning stubbornly against a deep black backdrop that failed to snuff them out. In sections it seemed like the stars were crammed together, as though a sugary dust had been spilled on a dark floor. The sea matched the sky above it, glassy and salty-smelling. It was late, after midnight, and there were no other passengers out on the boat deck. A chill had recently found its way into the previously pleasant weather, and the breaths of the couple that were strolling along turned a smoky silver as soon as they left their warm mouths._

_The cold bit against her skin and involuntarily she shivered, something she hoped Jack hadn't seen. She remembered with bitterness the times that she had shown discomfort because of the weather and Cal had dragged her back inside like a little child, deaf to her pleas to remain outdoors. Whenever she was with him, she felt convinced that he was trying to act like a parent towards her, correcting her whenever she spoke, never allowing her to make decisions for herself, ordering her about in the manner one would a servant . . ._

No, Rose, no, you mustn't do that, you can't, _she fiercely reminded herself. She absolutely refused to even think about spending the rest of her life with that man. She knew that if she allowed herself to, she would break apart. She might not agree with Society, but she did honor dignity, and she would not give up that dignity in front of Jack Dawson. With great effort, she turned her mind back to the frostiness in the air. _

_It took her a moment to realize that Jack must have seen her tremble from the cold, because he was already shrugging out of his black dinner jacket. The gesture surprised her, and vehemently she silently rebuked Cal's earlier words, the shocked exclamation of, "You could almost be a gentleman!" In that second, it took simply a jacket to convince Rose eternally that this penniless artist was more of a gentleman that Caledon Hockley could ever be, even though he seemed to have more money than God and the world at his feet. He didn't know how to care._

_"Here, Rose, you wanna put this on?" Jack asked breezily, holding out the article of clothing, his eyes dancing under the electric lights that burned above him. There was such genuine concern in his gaze, regardless of the easy way in which he spoke. Her heart unexplainably picked up pace, but she ignored it lest she do something she might regret._

_"Thank you, good sir," she teasingly answered, allowing Jack to wrap the jacket around her shoulders. While doing so, however, his finger brushed against her neckline and electricity bolted down her body so fast it seemed to stick her feet to the floor. She had never felt that strange emotion before, an emotion that confused her. The fact that one index finger could invoke so many stormy results throughout her heart terrified her. Her breathing became unsteady as he gently pulled back, his task done, and she made the mistake of looking into his eyes._

_He had been staring at her even before she had glanced up at him, but even as he was caught in the act he did not look away. He was searching for something, but he was silent and did not tell her what. She shook, this time not from the cold, as he continued to delve into her soul. His blue eyes drew her to him in a way that she couldn't have stopped even if she wanted to. She was lost in them and she had let go of reality. She had no escape, but was happily puzzled to realize she didn't want one. They stood like this for only a few short moments, but it may as well have been days. Nothing that she recognized crossed his face, and he left her bewildered but bizarrely amazed when he finally ripped his blue eyes away from her and to the deck. He began to walk again, slower. It took a little while for her to be able to follow his lead and focus on things other than him._

_"So, did you like the party?" He asked casually, sliding his hand furthest from her into his pocket. A grin crossed his face like he knew what she was going to say even before she said it, and she strongly suspected that he did._

_"Oh, Jack, it was wonderful! I've never had so much fun in my entire life!" Rose couldn't stop the giggles that rang from her throat, and he didn't appear to be able to stop his own laughter as he meekly nodded. He appeared to be about to speak again, but she cut across him so quickly that he didn't have a chance to even form a word. She needed to tell him this, needed to like she needed the air she breathed, needed to because he had saved her from her horribly claustrophobic life even if for one night. "Thank you," she murmured, softly smiling at him as they continued along, glancing up at his face._

_He wore an expression of humble satisfaction as his grin widened and inclined his head towards her. "You're welcome," he answered quietly, finally looking over at her to meet her own eyes. "Fabri sure seemed to like you. I reckon he called you _bella Rosa _about a dozen times before the night was out," He said it like it was a joke, although Fabrizio really had._

_Rose couldn't help but laugh when she thought of that stocky Italian. He seemed so sweet, in an almost innocent way, but there was a mischievous twinkle in his warm brown eyes that told her that although he was compassionate, this was also the man who was worthy of all of Jack's entertaining stories. "He was being so kind, even if he was a little crazy," she replied, which caused her companion to chuckle heartily._

_"Yeah, Fabrizio de Rossi is very crazy," Jack agreed. "But he was right, you know." Rose shot him a questioning look, and his face suddenly appeared serious. "You are beautiful."_

_Rose was desperately thankful for the blackness because she had never blushed so vividly red. She didn't know what to say, and there was silence for a few seconds except for the sound of their feet against the wood. He thought she was beautiful? He didn't use to demeaning words Cal did, or the hurtful roving stares. He said beautiful._

_"What's your favorite song?" Jack asked without warning, hitting her off guard. Without thinking very much about it, she found herself giving the programmed response that she had practiced faultlessly for years and years._

_"Father always loved Vivaldi, although my mother prefers Bach. They both appreciated Beethoven, however, so that was usually what was played in our estate just to keep the peace. I suppose I got used to it after awhile." She smiled quietly, then stared up at the opaque sky, waiting for a new conversation to begin._

_"No, no, Rose, that's not what I asked," he laughed. "What's _your_ favorite song? Not your parents, not what you tolerate, but what's _your favorite song_?" The emphasis shocked her and incredulously she realized that he was genuine. It had not been small talk, but he really wanted to know._

_She had never really thought about it before, no one had cared enough to ask her, but she knew the answer almost immediately. "Come Josephine," she said, trying to stem her surprise from her voice, "because I sometimes just want to be Josephine, and fly away . . ." She trailed off, but Jack seemed to understand. _

_"It's a wonderful song," he admitted, and then, would wonders never cease, he broke into the melody. "Come Josephine, my flying machine . . ." A sudden free feeling overtook Rose's heart, and she felt like she was no longer chained to anything, to nobody, except for maybe Jack Dawson. She fearlessly joined him. "Up she goes, up she goes, where she goes, there she goes!"_

_Neither of them got any farther because they had dissolved into laughter, tears actually streaming down their faces, not because the situation was too terribly funny but because a terribly heavy burden had just flown from their shoulders. It was like there had never been any seriousness between them, just this feather light giddiness that wouldn't leave._

_When they had finally straightened up and could breathe again, Rose wiped her eyes and teased, "Why, Mr. Dawson, you certainly have a fine singing voice." That wasn't the truth, because if she had to be perfectly honest she'd have to admit that Jack couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. But he tried without caring what people thought, and that was what was so magnetic about him._

_"Why thank you, Miss DeWitt-Bukater," he answered in a mocking British accent, an awful accent to be sure, and that just made Rose giggle all over again. She had never felt like this. Every time she looked at him, she wanted something strange, something that she had never had before._

_They had reached the first class entrance, she saw, and for the first time all evening Jack appeared to hesitate. His footsteps slowed, and he looked unsure of what to do. That was when Rose realized she didn't want to go and she didn't want to leave him. Not just now, but ever again. Terrified but too frivolous at the moment to see it, she dreamily crossed over to the lifeboat davit and leaned against the railing, gazing out at the black sky._

_"Oh Jack! Look! Look!" She cried out, her hand reaching behind her. Without thinking, she grabbed his hand and pulled him next to her. The sizzling hotness again erupted through her body, but this time she simply allowed it to run like blood through her veins as she gazed with unfailing joy towards the heavens. "A shooting star! I didn't get to wish on it! Did you see it? No . . . it disappeared . . ." She trailed off, disappointed but her expression still one of awe. _

_"Rose, there's another one," Jack whispered, close enough to her for her to feel his breath on her neck. This time she did rip her gaze from above to his face, and he was grinning, as though he had lived his whole life for this moment. He was right behind her, his chest was pressed against her back, and she couldn't think. How dare he assume that she could even function with him against her like this, so close, so warm . . .?_

_But suddenly it was his turn to take her hand. At first she was stunned and couldn't move. There was something so electrifying about his presence that she felt its power coursing through every nerve in her system, but gradually she managed to calm her fiercely beating heart and concentrate on the phenomenon that was him. She noticed again how wonderful his hands were, rough and very strong but so gentle it almost seemed like he was afraid to break her, as if she were some sort of lovely and delicate butterfly. No man had ever treated her with such soft concern, no man had ever tried to make her see the world in a light that encouraged her, no man had ever made her feel anything even close to what this poor artist who slept underneath bridges was making her feel. It took her a moment to stop staring at him and to follow his hand as he pointed her fingertips towards something far off in the distance._

_She saw it immediately, but it was different than all the other times. It was like she saw it through his eyes, with a mature respect and fascination but a child's innocence and amazement. There was a pure white streak that was falling down and down from inky blackness, tossing dust behind it and sparkling with a brightness that seemed magical. As it sped above them, diving in a perfect arc towards the horizon, she heard herself gasp without meaning to. _

_He had let go of her by now. It seemed as though he had been suddenly aware of how near he had been to her, and she had felt him drop her hand as though it burned him and step back immediately. She chose not to think of why he would do that, instead she refused to tear her eyes from the celestial miracle above her as it wove a path through other heavenly bodies._

_"My father always used to say," Jack started softly, jarring reality back into Rose's mind as they both looked upward, "that a shootin' star is a soul that's on its way to heaven." _

_Rose had gotten the feeling that Jack didn't talk about his parents much. When he had first started mentioning them, he seemed lost and disoriented, like he hadn't visited his past in his mind for a long time. The more he spoke of them, the less rickety the door to his memories appeared to become, but it was still apparent it pained him to remember. She wondered why he did it, why he let her so deep into his heart, when she wasn't supposed to be there at all._

_"Mmm . . ." she murmured, hugging Jack's dinner jacket tighter around her shoulders, "He sounds like he was a wise man." She suddenly remembered how much of her own heart she had given him tonight. From the sunset, when she had expressed her dreams of being free, to the middle of the party when she had giddily told him she wanted to act, from dancing with him and laughing with him and enjoying every single second she spent with him . . . in one day, this man had gone further into her soul than anyone else had in her entire life, and she didn't even know how he had gotten there. She took a shaky breath._

_"Yeah . . ." Jack nodded, but it couldn't be plainer that he suddenly wasn't thinking about his father anymore. She continued to look at the black horizon fringed with a gray blue haze, where the star had vanished, fallen to Earth or gone to the other side of the world or perhaps simply disappeared, just like her mother was trying to make her do._

_He moved from behind her to the railing next to her. There was nothing presumptuous or uncouth about the movement. He didn't look at her suggestively or try to awaken her body. Yet with all this, she was painfully aware of him standing there, and pained even more because of that pain._

_"You don't belong up here, with all of the rest," he said suddenly. All the happy dizziness from their conversation had evaporated, and she heard the dead seriousness in his voice. He wasn't gazing at her, but out over at the pitch dark sea, seeming to concentrate with all his mind on the folds of water as they rushed off to who knew where._

_She didn't want the talk to get heavy. She didn't want him to worry about her. She didn't want him to think that she was incapable of handling her situation herself. Without warning a fierce determination to this to him overtook her and she refused to be open to him, refused to even be open to herself. She shoved thoughts of overbearing mothers and abusive fiancées far away from her and managed to laugh a laugh that was fake, and they both knew it. "Oh, really!"_

_He didn't miss a beat. That was one thing she loved about him, even if she wished urgently that he would leave well enough alone. Nothing threw him off his path. Instead, he finally turned towards her and his unbelievably blue eyes focused like a magnifying lens upon her own eyes, staring intensely and relentlessly into the depths of her heart, and she couldn't pretend anymore. She couldn't have shut him out then even if she wanted to; she was helpless against that gaze. She felt her mouth open slightly, and he did the worst possible thing he could have done at that moment to her fluttering emotions. He took a step closer, filling in all of the space between them, almost nearer to her than he had been while they had danced, so close that she had no air just to herself anymore, it was his too, but it didn't matter – she couldn't have breathed anyway. She just looked up at his figure towering over her, feeling like a deer caught in the headlights, unable to move, unable to think._

_"Yeah . . . really." She felt his words form in the air and brush against her skin, which made her tremble. He still did not touch her. "You got mailed to the wrong address." His voice had fallen to a barely distinctive mutter, but she heard him. And she knew he was right. She knew that she came from a place she didn't belong in. She knew she had been given to the wrong parents. A flash of pain momentarily muddied her expression as she remembered . . . she remembered she could never break free from her father's lies or her mother's grip. She knew Society had a rope around her neck and she couldn't get out. Every movement she made to try and escape only tightened the choking hold of the life she lived and she hated it, hated it desperately and passionately._

_"You're right," she murmured quietly, turning from him back to the ocean, looking out over its endless dreary depths. The truth was she found it increasingly difficult to look into his eyes now, because in their blue pools she saw exactly who she could be if she was given room to grow. She saw her dreams exploding into life; she saw a path that she wanted to take with every particle of her body._

_But it wasn't too long until that same magnetic force drew her back, and she had to gaze at him again. She was shocked to find his face much closer to hers than it had been before, only inches away, and she realized that she had unconsciously stepped closer to him. She couldn't help it! She couldn't stop the pull he had on her!_

_She made to move away, but there was something in him that she could see clearly begged her not to. A frantic pleading was silently screaming in his eyes as he begged her for something that she wanted to give him so terribly, but it was not hers to give. Her heart, she knew, was no longer in her possession – it had been ripped from her and she was left empty-handed. That didn't stop her from violently wishing that she could hand herself over to him, give him everything, because right there in those blue irises she saw that he was offering her all of himself in the best way he could think of. There was a soundless question in his face. She felt rooted to the deck. In her mind, she besought God frantically. She asked Him again and again why he would do this to her, why . . . why He let her fall in love with Jack Dawson._

_Terror burst through her veins like blood the moment she admitted this to herself. She couldn't do anything about it! All of the feelings she had been fighting since the moment she had seen this artist finally found a crack in the wall around her heart and they came rushing in so fast there was no possible way for her to block them again. The worst part was that, right before her, she saw that look of pure, innocent desire and soul wrenching adoration that was in her own eyes mirrored in his. There was something stronger about him, though, something bold and yet very cautious. He obviously knew he was in someone else's territory. Jack wasn't stupid, he knew she was engaged, and he knew the importance of Society engagements. He knew that this was crazy. And yet . . . he also seemed to know that she was a woman, she was not a girl, and she could make her own decisions. He knew she needed freedom to want for herself and not for others, to finally see that there was more out there than money and husbands. He knew she wanted frantically to discover the rest of the world, to discover . . . him. Everything in his face said he simply knew. He didn't force himself on her, but he didn't shy away. He just stood there, baring his spirit, waiting for her to do as she willed._

_His lips were far too close. There was nothing but a few inches of air separating them, and the temptation to close the distance was such that Rose surely would have if she had been able to move. Half of her was praying mightily that he would do what she couldn't and kiss her right there, while the other half of her was trying to repel him and grasping at whatever shards she could remember of supposed dignity – she was promised to another man, for God's sake! A man she had never willingly stood this close to, a man she would never kiss, a man that didn't make her feel even a sliver of what she felt like right now. But nonetheless, she wore his rock on her finger and he had seized her heart with his cold iron grip, refusing it to her, even though he had no right to it._

No Rose, no, _she silently berated herself. _Get out of this situation right now.

_But it was so hard, and then it became nearly impossible when a look of resolve crept into his hard blue eyes and it seemed as though he was lowering his head, slowly, testing the waters and gauging what her reaction would be if he went all the way. And she wanted him to, she really did, but Rose was a creature known for her common sense. She might own a huge colorful imagination, and she might dance and laugh and dream, but she also had enough practicality to know when she was straying too far too fast and too dangerously into the stars. She always knew when to put her feet back on solid ground she had been on before, no matter how much she hated it._

_She kept on reminding herself of these thoughts far into the night. It was for his own sake as well as hers that she stepped back, even though her legs felt like lead. It was for both of them that she snaked her hand back like she had been burned from where it had previously rested so close to his that she had been able to feel the friction between their skin. But, she realized numbly, it was only because she was terribly afraid of hurting him that she refused to stay in his company any longer. When she finally spoke, the words sounded harsh and fake and foreign – not the words she used when she was being herself, but rather the words she used when she was being who her mother wanted her to be. They weren't really her words at all._

_"Thank you, Mr. Dawson, for the wonderful evening." In that one sentence, she had cut off any intimate relationship that they had built that night. She saw the pain flame into his eyes and she wanted to scream at him that this pain was so much better than the pain that would be his if she had allowed him to fall in love with her. She wanted to stomp her foot and shriek that she was doing this for him, just so that he would be able to move on, just so that this hideous problem didn't grow bigger. She wanted to yell at the top of her voice that she needed him to forget about her and just go on with his free, floating, glorious life; she needed him to get away from her and run as far the other direction as he could so that he didn't get caught in this horrible trap she had been snagged in. But that honest-to-God, passionate Rose had been laid to rest again and the Rose she hated continued to possess her body. "I hope America is everything you want it to be. Goodnight." There was such finality in those words. Those words basically said that she never wanted to associate with him again and she certainly didn't plan on speaking to him again. _

_She was not oblivious to the confusion that passed in his face, and she saw that he honestly thought she felt that way, that she didn't care, and that she didn't have a single emotion for him that went over being a polite acquaintance. He thought that she had been playing with his heart; he thought she had been looking for a bit of cheap entertainment. He thought she was like every other rich pampered brat, he thought she had been slumming! That humiliated her and infuriated her and she didn't know what to do or what to say, because she could never take those words back. But then there was a glimmer of something wistful and beautiful in his eyes, something that would not burn, something that said no, she was different, he knew her life was killing her, and he couldn't leave her like that. Something that said he knew she was lying. However, that light was gone in an instant, quickly hidden when he saw the look of wrath on her face, even though that wrath had by now died. She couldn't speak. If she stayed any longer, she wouldn't be able to resist him and she'd do something foolish that would totally alter the entire course of her life. She was too much of a coward._

_The thought mortified her, and without waiting for him to say anything she flung open the door to the Grand Staircase and tripped inside, inside of a place which Society dictated he could not enter. She expected to feel safer, more secure, but the suffocating feeling just rose higher in the back of her throat and burned in the pit of her stomach. She knew she had just left the only safe place she had had in the past several years, and sorrow for what should but couldn't be crept into her heart._

_She was shaking so much that she instinctively reached out for a mahogany column so that she could remain standing. He had taken all the strength from her and she found it hard to walk at all. But there was something much worse than that, something that made her sigh and put her head in her hands so as to hide the tears dripping down her face from herself. Already, only five seconds later, she wanted to see him again. Oh God, what had she gotten herself into!_

When Rose suddenly found herself again in the present, the first thing she saw was a front door. Her mind had not been with her body for the last few minutes, but she still had been able to feel the apprehension that enshrouded her husband like a thick blanket he couldn't take off. He was nervous now as they climbed up slick porch steps and were sheltered mercilessly from some of the icy wind and driving snow by an old dilapidated roof. She could tell by the way he kept running his hand first through his hair and then through hers, glancing nervously over at her and then away. Suddenly it seemed like a realization dawned on him, and he gave her the explanation she deserved.

"This is . . . well, this was . . . probably still is . . . my . . . my . . . uhhh . . . friend . . . Peter's . . . house." He stumbled over his words and it was amazing the sentence got out at all, because he didn't seem to be able to speak much. Yet, with amazing determination, he plowed on and she listened patiently. "He'll . . . he should know about . . . about the house . . . my house . . . our house, you know . . . and what shape it's in . . . if it's even still there . . . " Inside of her heart, a tenderness that he was willing to share his past with her fought with great concern that he apparently had just realized someone might have had the audacity to tear down the house that he had grown up in. Concern won, and she wrapped her freezing arms around him wordlessly. He buried his head in her scarlet curls flecked with melting white drops, but only for a second before a new motivation crept into his eyes again and the became more sure, more hard, more resolved to get this over with.

He strode up to the door with much more nerve than he had showed all day and pounded his fist cracked from the dry air onto the old wood peeling with fading black paint. He then took a slight step backwards and exhaled shakily before grabbing Rose's hand and towing her up next to him. He pulled her against him and held her there, but she knew that he didn't need support right then. The fiery look she loved was in him again, the same one he'd had when he had said, "We're gonna make it, Rose. Trust me," the same one he'd had when he'd made her promise to live, the same one she knew never let him down.

Within seconds, there was the sound of a door being unstuck and a handle jiggling. Finally, the ugly black slab of wood swung open and behind it stood a young woman, perhaps a few years older than Rose, with black hair pulled back into a tight bun and delicate features set into a pale but pretty face.

There were no words for a few moments. Gusts blew snow into the house, but the woman didn't appear to notice. She grabbed the doorpost as if it would hold her up and stared in wonder at the man in front of her, who stared fearlessly back.

"Jack?" It was a timid question, a question that came from a person who was afraid of being let down, and who had perhaps been let down before far too many times. Her voice came out as barely more than a whisper, as if she couldn't muster the strength to speak. Something from years back that Rose did not know stirred behind her deep navy eyes and in Jack's ocean blue ones. It was through that monstrous thing that the pretty girl recognized him at last. "Jack!" It wasn't a question anymore, but a statement, an exclamation of joy, of disbelief.

Though Rose detected confusion in Jack's face, he didn't ask whatever he wanted to ask at the moment. Instead he spoke the girl's name as softly as she had just spoke his, and a tinge of jealousy actually burned alive in Rose, but she put it out quickly, knowing how hard this already was for her husband. "May."

Then, before Rose knew what had happened, this person had flung herself against Jack's chest, not noticing the cold, and Jack had let go of Rose so he could catch May. It left Rose feeling alone, very alone, and puzzled. But still she remained silent.

"Oh my God! Peter! Jack's here! Jack's here!" She clutched Jack's wrist and dragged him along behind her, although he looked like he would have preferred to walk in on his own accord. This made Rose feel slightly alright again and even better when Jack's free hand fished behind him for a part of Rose so he could take her with him. She closed the door behind her, already sighing with relief from the big fire the crackled in an open living room.

The dull white house on the outside gave way to a pleasant, cheery warmth on the inside. It seemed as though the house had been worn down with use, but it was a happy contented sort of use that made Rose feel like she was someplace happy that belonged only in storybooks. The moment May let go of Jack to go search for Peter, whoever he was, Jack's arm again claimed its rightful place around Rose's petite frame. He roved the living room, gazing at its threadbare throw rugs, old overstuffed sofas, and ancient picture frames almost longingly, and then whispered as if almost to himself, "Nothing's changed much." He turned without warning to her and suddenly he was the one giving an encouraging smile, as if he knew how out of place she felt. Of course he knew. Jack knew everything.

A man appeared from a rickety staircase Rose hadn't noticed before, a man who had pale brown hair but May's deep dark blue eyes. He wasn't as tall as Jack, but he had more of a stocky build. Stubble like fine grains of sand covered his chin and he too seemed struck dumb.

Two friends who before used to know each other better than they knew themselves stared at the complete, yet unnervingly familiar, stranger that stood across from them. Obviously this man had thought the moment of reunion would never come and had not been at all expected for it. He looked at Jack like he was some sort of a ghost that wasn't really there.

There were no words for a long time. Nobody moved or breathed or did anything of any sort to suggest that the people standing in that room were anything other than statues. There were many things present in the house right then – there were the visible occupants, and then three young teenagers who had been frozen in a suspended time and were finally getting permission to awake again. When Rose turned to look at the man she adored, she saw a shock in his eyes that told her he had just realized the enormity of the situation he was in. She felt horrible for him, and she wanted to help him, but she was the one person excluded for reasons she had no control over; reasons that she didn't even understand.

It seemed like an eternity that memories glared at memories head on. It seemed like the clock had stopped, and forever would these four people just stand in the middle of a living room, none of them believing that everyone present was truly real. However, reality has its way of slamming through allusion eventually, and the deep navy eyes of this man, this Peter Filner that Jack had mentioned on rare accounts, opened wide with realization and truth. In two hesitant steps he was in front of his friend, searching his face, searching for an explanation that Jack was not giving yet. "Jack Dawson," was all Peter said, and then he gruffly embraced the person he had been convinced was dead and he would never see again. He stepped back again for a moment, surveying this long lost boy that had been like a brother to him, seeing that he had grown and was much more of man than Pete had ever been able to imagine. Unable to stop himself, the first thing that came out of his mouth was, "My God, Dawson, where have you been? You never wrote, you never came back, you never did anything to convince us you were anything other than stone cold six feet under!"

There was an impenetrable silence that answered his question. Secrets like Peter had never known stared back at him from the irises of his friend, secrets shrouded with hideous pain, unspeakable agony, tumultuous regret, and yet encased in something beautiful . . . something that just looked like love.

Rose shivered from the harshness of the question this stranger had just spat out with venomous anger, but fury that was released with relief. She was still invisible to these two people, siblings, she remembered from Jack's offhanded remarks months ago. She stood there helplessly as May broke the tension by running to Rose's husband with reckless abandon. Her pale arms were laced around his neck, and she began sobbing uncontrollably into his shirt, her entire body shaking violently. Jack, kind-hearted person that he was, enveloped her in his arms. Rose gasped out loud when he ripped his hand from hers to comfort the weeping girl, and it was like she had caused a disturbance in the room that was very unwelcome. She suddenly wished urgently for her invisibility again. Jack lifted his head from May's raven-colored hair and cleared his throat. He timidly reached for her fingertips again, knowing he had made her uncomfortable, and gently managed to separate himself from May. "Pete, I'll tell you about where I've been later but . . . uh . . . this is my wife, Rose. And Rose, meet my . . . my . . . friends . . . Peter and May Filner."

With such goddamned vivid red hair, Peter vaguely wondered how he had missed her in the first place. But then he lost the capability to think, because her drop dead magnificence was absolutely stunning beyond the point of breathlessness. If she had told him she was Aphrodite herself, Peter would have believed her without question. He lost all body control for a moment, and although he was somewhat aware that his jaw was hanging open, he was unable to do anything to close it. Her eyes, those insanely green eyes, were drawing him in much more powerfully than any magnet had ever sucked up iron. And those lips . . . Holy Mother of God . . .

Rose's manicured Philadelphian Society manners had been pruned to perfection by her mother, and to her dismay, that had stuck with her ever since. They didn't fail her now, even though she knew this was neither the place nor the time for them. But she also wanted to make a good impression on these people, no matter how uncouth her first impression of them was, and she reasoned that whoever was friends with the love of her life sure as hell was her friend too. "How do you do, Peter, May? I've heard so much about you; it's lovely to meet you."

May could hardly move. The best moment of her life had just been slammed down by a horrible heartbreak that was taking place at that exact second. She could literally feel her heart tear. In that second, without pausing to analyze anything, without stopping to think about the lovestruck look in Jack's eyes when he gazed at the woman next to him, May decided she hated this Rose. She hated her gorgeous eyes, she hated her beautiful hair, she hated her smooth skin, she hated how she nobly held her head up high but gave the appearance of perfect dignity and humbleness, she hated her flawless posture, she hated her wealthy accent, and she hated her unfaltering politeness. She shot poisonous arrows at her with her gaze, both hoping and not hoping she got the shameless message.

"Damn, Jack, you got married?" Peter laughed the first real laugh he had laughed for weeks. This was not at all like the dreamer he had known. This was not the boy who had refused to sit still for more than two moments. No, this was a man, who looked hopelessly, eternally, and terribly in love. It shocked Peter, for Peter had never seen anything like what he saw in his friend's eyes when they fell on his new bride. There was yearning, more than a physical want, but a spiritual need, a thankfulness and a desperation that seemed almost impossible to understand. Everything about Jack softened when he gazed at this celestial woman, like dry ground that was finally getting the beautiful relief of rain. No matter how long he gazed at her, Jack's expression never changed and never dulled, just continued to flame with an intensity that even Jack's artwork had never basked in. Peter knew, suddenly and instinctively, that Jack would easily leave everything he had before talked about for so long – dreams, choices, the apex of freedom – for this Rose without a second thought. She _was_ his dream, his choice, his apex of freedom, and even more than that. She was his soulmate, his heaven, his eternity, his life, his heart, his everything, and Peter was as sure of that as he was that two plus two equals four. All of this hit him in a matter of seconds, leaving him stunned that Jack Dawson could possibly have changed this much and yet still remain so much the same – compassionate, brave, and honest.

"Would you like to sit down?" Peter asked, motioning towards the sinking couches. There was a hope in his face, a hope that maybe a broken friendship could be repaired. Rose saw it immediately, and she didn't miss a beat.

"We've endured a long journey. Thank you," she graciously replied, instantly moving towards the nearest available sofa as elegantly as she had ever approached a velvet upholstered chair. There was no hesitation as she gracefully took her place on the cushion. She missed the look of extreme admiration and gratefulness mixed with amazement that Jack shot her. Suddenly, Jack thought the first coherent thought he hadthought in a long time. He thanked God that his wife was here with him, for here in the living room of someone who had once been his closest friend, she was the one that eased away the tension and she was the one who acted like she had known Peter and May Filner all her life. He smiled lopsidedly at the host and hostess, and then followed Rose's example and sat down beside her, preparing himself for the inevitable conversation that had finally come.


	8. Closer

The silence was broken only by the sound of May throwing cupboards shut in the next room as she prepared coffee. Peter had occupied a roomy but worn winged armchair directly across from the sofa. He now stared silently at the two people opposite of him, his hands gripping the sides of his cushion.

"My parents moved to California," Pete said almost automatically, but whether he meant to avoid any questions about the subject or just fill in the quiet Jack did not know. "The cold was too much for them, you know what I mean. They left the house to my sister and me. It's not much, but it works."

Jack opened his mouth to say something, but May stormed out of the swinging door that led to the kitchen and he was so shocked by the furious look in her dark eyes that he forgot entirely about the conversation his friend had tried to start. Her face was actually blotchy with anger, and her knuckles shook as she carried a steaming pot and a tray holding three cups out into the living room. That was something Jack noticed immediately – there were only three cups. He barely had time to awe over the strangeness of the situation when May, whose vision was apparently clouded with rage, tripped over the leg of the coffee table and tripped, managing to catch herself at the last second and hold onto the pot. However, the tray slid out of her hand and the cups crashed to the floor, one breaking as it hit the sharp edge of a chair.

Instantly, Rose was on her knees beside May and carefully picking up shards of porcelain from the frayed rug beneath her. She didn't say anything or ask if help was needed, she just went about her business very quietly, as if determined not to awaken a volcano that was stirring in its sleep. All of this had happened so quickly that Jack was still too startled to wonder what this was all about. He looked at Peter with wide, confused eyes, and Peter looked back just as helplessly. As Rose's gentle hands moved to help May brush off her dress, which was peppered with bits of broken glass, May suddenly swatted at her hands and venomously countered, "I can take care of this myself, thank you." The turmoil in Jack's face became considerably heavier as he sat there, frozen, wondering what in the hell had happened to someone who had once been one of his closest friends. He didn't understand the bitterness in her voice or the cold indifference in her expression.

Peter was also horrified. He had no idea why his sister was acting like this at all, let alone to the breathtaking wife of a man that had finally slowed down, just as she had always wished for him to do. May looked like she was on the verge of tears, tears hot with resentment and hurt. He was left clueless to what had gone wrong. Rose, however, coolly answered, "I'll collect the pieces from the floor while you remove anything sharp from your skirts. You could get badly injured if you don't." She didn't wait for an answer and instead took the glass to the kitchen, where they heard her open the back door and assumed that she had gone and thrown it far from the house. When she came back, the mess was gone, and May was again in the kitchen removing cups that were tin this time, as she had broken three of their good ones.

Rose threw off a regal glow as she again sat down next Jack. There was no haughtiness in the light that surrounded her, just fluid beauty. Peter still couldn't stop himself from staring.

Jack threw a concerned glance over at his wife. He saw the tiniest pinprick of blood where a rough edge had caught her cold fingertip, and he smoothed it over with one of his strong fingers, pressing down until the bleeding stopped. She held in a gasp of discomfort and instead smiled at him weakly, not from pain, but from confusion and disappointment. He held her hand gently, squeezing it from time to time, trying to say without words how sorry he was even though he was absolutely oblivious to what had made May snap like she had.

"Well," Peter said nervously, trying to take the couple's attention away from the embarrassing occurrence, "How long do you folks plan on staying in town?" There was a pleading in his eyes, something that begged them to let it go. They did.

"We don't exactly know. Definitely through winter, but probably for awhile," Jack answered, leaving out as many details as possible, not giving any more than asked. This was completely unlike him, for he usually offered all of himself without fear, but now he had Rose to think about.

"Hmmm. When everyone finds out you're back in town, they're gonna tie you to a wall to keep you from leaving again." Pete laughed appreciatively at his own joke, just like he always had, and Jack grinned despite himself. "So, Jack, where've ya been?"

For a split-second, Jack allowed himself to consider the question. The images rushed thorough his mind like a messily-put-together nickelodeon, some of them blurry and fuzzy, some so vividly clear that he could smell the sharp scents that accompanied them and feel textures that his mind had preserved. They were memories . . . some that made him ache, others that burned and stabbed like a hot knife, others that exhilarated. Then unexpectedly, even to himself, he threw up a dam in his thoughts and ground to a sudden stop.

"Uh, well, you know me, Mr. World-Class-Traveler." Even Rose giggled at that, and May entered the room again with, this time, four tin cups and the same steaming pot, which she carefully set down on the coffee table. There was silence that fell upon the group suddenly, and May blushed such a shameful color of red that Rose was filled with sympathy for her and rapidly took up her husband's sentence, which he had stopped after seeing the icy poison swirling in the girl's eyes. He looked terrified.

"Well, Jack told me that he actually worked in Monterrey and Santa Monica for a time." She gave him a pointed glance, one that he deciphered to the best of his ability to mean something to the effect of, "Stop gawking and open your trap to answer your friend." He complied and looked up at Peter.

"Yeah, after that I made my way across the country to New York City and caught a steamer to Paris." He had told this story so many times to so many people that it felt like a prepared speech. Any second now would come that one comment –

"I knew France would be in there somewhere! Had to follow the art, eh?"

Ah. There it was.

Jack nodded as he choked down the coffee May gave him with trembling fingertips, although he didn't notice them. He also didn't notice the desperation with which she looked at him, and how hard she seemed to be willing herself to speak. Her silent cry of _"Please, please, please look at me,"_ went unanswered and he plunged onward, ignorant.

"I found out that most of the guys in Paree were already pretty well known, had a few pieces out there, you know. And they were all so unbelievably educated, a degree in every field of art from every damn university that they could get their greedy little hands on. They'd gone so far into being an artist that they forgot about the art and just lived for the stupid money." He had been getting quite worked up, but he caught himself before he snapped and shoved his hair back from his eyes, demanding that his breathing steady itself. This was something he was good at, controlling his anger, and he let his rational mind take over the irrational fury at people that weren't even there. He swallowed heavily, and Peter's laugh rang out almost harshly in the little room.

"Not everyone is as resistant to the material life as you are, my friend," he said, still chuckling. "Some people like having enough money to put a roof over their heads or foods in their bellies. Not all people are as pure-hearted as you've always thought." The grin slipped from his face and a moody expression roamed across it instead. His gaze became slack and he dropped it to the fire, smoothing the stubble on his chin aimlessly with a free finger. Pete had seen things in his own life, no matter how sheltered it had been, and he shook his head slightly so as not to drown in the memories that threatened to bury him.

"I know that," Jack answered, quiet but strangely defiant. "I've known that for a long time." But he wouldn't allow himself to go down that path. There was no time, and he didn't have enough strength for the treacherous climb over pain that that path represented. As Rose's delicate hand almost invisibly massaged his shoulder, he pretended that nothing had happened and continued with his story. "So I stayed there for a little while, and then I wandered down through Italy to the Mediterranean. Always wanted to do that, couldn't see why I should wait." He hesitated, but he knew that he couldn't bring Fabri into the story. His wound was not yet healed well enough to expose to the open air, it still gutted at him and stabbed at his heart and tortured his soul. The bandage of silence that he had wrapped around it was not something that could be lifted yet, and maybe it never would be. He kept Fabrizio de Rossi safe and unblemished inside of him, in that small corner of his brain where he had left Fabri to be closed off from the cruel world that didn't deserve him. No, the tale of that stocky Italian man was going to have to wait. It was a gash far too fresh, far too deep, far too close to his spirit.

"And, uh, I met some new people in Italy, but I . . . I couldn't stay in one place very long, you know, I got sorta restless . . . I decided I was gonna go back to France . . . back to drawing things that . . . that needed to be drawn, even if art had gone to hell in Paris, it wasn't taking me with it. On my way, I took a long route, went through some more of Europe. Couple of years later I went to London, and eventually wound up . . . on . . . well, back in America."

Rose's piercing plea next to him cut straight through to his insides, and the tears that were trembling on her eyelashes made him feel horribly guilty. This was a bad idea, he knew, to be dancing so close to the line that was _Titanic_. One wrong step and he would fall across the border into a place that he feared he'd never leave, and Rose would follow him, like she always did. It was almost as if he were holding a gun and reaching to cock it. There was no going back once one crossed that line, none whatsoever. He slowly backed away, for he felt Rose begging him to leave that alone, silently screaming at him with all that she was. He could never deny her anything, and this hadn't changed.

"I stayed in New York, saved up the money, and, well, you know the rest!" The false cheeriness in his voice seemed noticed only by his wife and he raced past this deadly point.

However, he was not allowed to escape so easily. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," Peter objected, a laugh again in his eyes. "How did you meet this angel over there? No offense, Jack, but she doesn't seem to be the sleeping-in-gutters type. What'd'ja do, kidnap her?" He glanced for a moment at Rose, to be polite, but he didn't trust himself to look at her long. She was far, far too beautiful, far too kind, far too everything that was wonderful, and he could never gaze at her in the way he wanted to, and he knew it.

"Not too big of a deal, really. We met . . . near Ireland. And, what can I say, how could she resist me?" Although Jack was quick to hide it, Pete saw the flash of fear that burned simultaneously through Jack's eyes and those of his lovely bride. It was gone before anything could be said about it, and Jack laughed and pretended to stretch out arrogantly over the sofa. Rose smiled a small smile, her face suddenly lacking any color. What was going on here?

Jack had to congratulate himself. He had told the truth, for they had barely left Ireland when Jack had first seen Rose DeWitt-Bukater, but he had managed to dodge everything even about the ocean. Still, this victory didn't taste as sweet as it should have. "No, no, really, I couldn't resist her." He remembered her standing there, like some goddess that had been ripped from her rightful place in the heavens, crying out for someone to show her that they believed she still belonged there. A tender look crossed his face as his hand absentmindedly reached to Rose's fiery curls and threaded through them.

"I can see why," Peter murmured, far too close to the trap that Rose Dawson had built around him in five seconds without even knowing it. He turned away.

"May, you've hardly said a word," Jack said suddenly but timidly, for he had not forgotten the venom that May had been full of only moments before. He prayed it was gone, whatever it had been. "How've you been? Anyone special in your life?"

May's mind sighed, feeling partially angry at him for his blasted ignorance and partially knowing that she could never be truly angry with him, for he was simply too innocent. She wanted to say a thousand things, to tell him that she had thought he was dead and that she had been crushed, to tell him that he was the last thing she saw before she fell asleep and the first picture her mind gave her when she awoke in the morning. She allowed herself to relive, even for just a moment, Jack's fifteenth birthday. The smell of sharp, cool autumn again burned her nostrils and she could almost feel his hand in hers as he pulled her gently away from the group of people talking in his kitchen. The dusk had settled out into velvety night, and he had simply taken her to the forest near his house and kissed her. There had been nothing leading to it, nothing complicated, just his mouth on hers and his arms tight around her waist and her lips being at first probed and then pierced by his tongue. It had been awkward at the first second, but then it had been wonderful, her body had awoken to things that she didn't even know it had the power to awake to and stirred in ways that it shouldn't have stirred for a long time. She had realized that her entire life had been born so that she could be like this, so that she could kiss Jack Dawson, and she knew she couldn't live without him. They went back to the party afterwards, and he hadn't let go of her all evening. She had been walking on air, unbelieving, and every time she had glanced at him her body had melted. But the fearless Jack, the evil twin of the Jack that she loved, stayed this close to her for only a couple of months. Slowly, agonizingly, she had watched as the kisses began to become shorter and less emotional. Helplessly, she had stood there on that fateful December day in her living room, in this very room, as he had told her that he couldn't be with her like this, that his blessed friendship with Peter wasn't going to survive, and that she was a wonderful person and he would always admire her, but someone else had been chosen to love her, no matter how differently he had once thought. She had nodded, said she understood, said she had been thinking the very same thing, and said that there was bound to be the perfect girl for him out there somewhere. She had smiled considerately as he struggled with what to say and even kissed him one last time on the cheek as he grinned with relief, relief that she still wanted to be friends with him, and buttoned up his jacket. As he stepped into the bitter cold to go home, she still stood smiling. But the moment the door had shut, she'd ran up to the attic, flung herself over the chilly wooden crates of junk, and cried until her tear supply had dried up, then waited for it to refill, and cried some more. May Filner had been desperately in love with Jack Dawson, and nothing had changed. He apparently believed that she had meant everything she had said that day, and that she had recovered without any trouble at all, and that she was happy for him for finding this . . . this . . . woman. She would not disappoint him, not if she could help it. She would rather die than see his disappointment directed at her.

"I've been fine, you know, same old same old. Chippewa Falls hasn't changed too much. There hasn't been anything fresh here in ages, if you know what I mean. No new men or even boys to drool over, just the stupid ones from before, but I'm glad to see that you're in one piece." It took all of her strength to say those four sentences. She felt like she was trying to reach the moon. She shook without meaning to and had to hide her hands.

Rose was not ever easily fooled, and now was no different, but this was not her façade, and it was not her place to tell the truth of this lie. Instead, she turned from May, trying to pretend that she couldn't see the look of adoration in her navy irises, and studied Jack. The tense look in his eyes hadn't left, but it had relaxed a little, and she could see the man she loved with her whole heart, her savior, her life. He wasn't fawning over her right now, or pushing up against her, or even looking at her at all, and yet there was a sudden powerful pride and stormy desire she felt for him that hit her like lightning, fast and out of nowhere, splintering through all of her other emotions. He was irresistible right now, with a blonde strand of hair hanging in his face, an ever so slight grin on his lips, strong hands touching her in every respectable way he could. She felt a need to kiss him right at that moment, that was so real and tangible that she had to work to convince herself to be satisfied with just being near him.

"So, Jack, when did you and Rose get married? Do you have any plans to have children, or is that too far in the future?" Peter's questions had started out innocent enough, but the knife that drove deep into Rose's heart at the very moment he mentioned children was viciously twisted by the carefree way in which he regarded the subject, like he was just being polite by filling up dead air but he knew that they were too immature to care.

Rose did not scream at him. Rose did not slap him. Rose did not threaten him or belittle him. She simply stared at him, a ghostly stare with eyes that were painted green with a sea of regret, an expression created with what-might-have-beens, trembling tears made up of broken dreams. Her face was shadowed with pain, a deep and unbearable pain that set her delicate features afire. Memories that were marred to ugliness with hurt surfaced in her irises.

Peter missed it. He was afraid to look at her, afraid to see. But Jack looked at nothing else, and Jack saw it at once. He couldn't breathe. He knew that he should comfort her somehow; he knew that he should change the topic or hold her or something, anything. But he couldn't. He didn't know what to do.

"We've been married since . . . since . . . August . . ." Jack murmured, confused, never taking his gaze off of his wife. Finally, something inside of him clicked, and his hand managed to creep around her waist and he pulled her into him, burying her face into his shoulder. The Filners assumed she was being shy, but silent tears soaked his shirt while she tried to compose herself.

"Yeah," he managed to go on, trying to take attention off of his wife. "We met back in . . . in . . . uhh . . . April, and we ended up both going to . . . to New York." Finally, Rose lifted her face, and a beatific smile replaced the tremulous lips of seconds before. She morphed so quickly that Jack was stunned.

"That wasn't a very long courtship, was it?" Peter seemed to be adding things quickly in his head, but Jack cut him off before he could get too far.

"Love at first sight, you know, couldn't help it." For the first time, he was telling the full-blooded truth without hiding anything from his friend. It had been love at first sight, and that's the way it would be forever. The muscles in his body suddenly relaxed. It would be alright, he knew it.

After supper that evening, Peter had advised Jack and Rose to stay for the night and head out to the Dawson place tomorrow. He said that it would need a lot of work, and that was best left for the dawn of a fresh day. They hastily agreed, with cramps in their exhausted muscles from the restless night before and tiredness beginning to draw its weary blanket over them. After they had both bathed in the washroom with water heated over the stove, May gave them a fat tallow candle and showed them to the extra bedroom, her parents' old room, where they would be sleeping. The bed was rickety and old, but it was big enough for the both of them, and she heaped blankets on the ancient mattress to fight off the painful cold.

The last thing May wanted was to leave. She didn't want to think about the object of her adoration alone, in a bedroom, with someone that wasn't her. But she knew she had to. She delayed long enough, hoping they would be so tired that they would just collapse and not go near each other, but the blistering look that Jack was giving Rose told May that he wanted, that he felt like he _needed_, time with just his wife. It was this, and only this, that compelled her feet to turn around and walk her out of the room. She would have listened to no one else, but he had power over her that he didn't even know he had. She wanted to hate him for it, but in all of her weakness the only thing she could do was throw herself on her own bed and sob until she felt she would die. That's what she did for hours, as the blackness threatened to suffocate her just like the blackness in her heart.

The moment May shut the door behind her, Jack let out a breath he had been holding since the moment he had knocked on their door. Even with the fire's warmth trickling through the small house, it was still drafty inside, but he unbuttoned his shirt nonetheless and allowed himself to breathe deeply. Reassurance that he had made it through the first crucial hours washed over him like bathwater.

The candle flickered madly as wind crept in the seam between the window and the walls, casting his face into an eerie collage of dim orange shadow. There weren't words for several moments as Rose freed herself from the entrapment of the dress she had worn for far too long and sifted through their suitcases for her nightgown. Soon she found it, and she was pulling it over her head when she felt a powerful arm wrap around her and she was drawn into a bare chest, broad and smelling like sweet sandalwood.

"Thank you for being here with me," Jack's voice murmured huskily, emotionally. "Thank you." He couldn't think of anything else to say, and he just stood there staring at her, loving her, wanting her.

She didn't speak, but instead finished putting on her nightclothes and then looked up and pressed her lips to his, breathing in deeply everything about him, feeling how his lips at first were slow and surprised but quickly turned into live wires, devouring her. There was something inside of them that roared back to life, something that had previously been pushed into the background but was now resurrected to a power that was almost greater than it had ever been. Rose trembled, but not from fear. She had no idea why her body was quivering the way it was, but Jack's touch on her, his mouth against hers, his solid form so close that she couldn't function at all, all of these worked to make the memories of this awkward day fade away, and there was only the two of them.

He stood straight from where he had been leaning against the wall and pushed her back, step by step, until her knees hit the bed and she fell softly into the imprinted mattress. He followed her, his mouth never breaking in its dance with hers, and held his weight up on his forearms. His hands threaded through her hair, and then moved to explore her body, caressing her and listening to her strangled gasps. Their breathing became so ragged that it was a wonder they could get any breaths in at all. The smoldering desire in Jack's eyes told her exactly what he was thinking, exactly what she was thinking.

"No, Jack, we can't," she murmured huskily, hardly able to move, wishing with all her being that she didn't have to say those words. "I can't." She closed her burning eyelids so that she wouldn't have to see Jack's immediate reaction, but she could almost feel the confusion and guilt painted on his face.

He got up off of her and sat on the edge of the tiny bed, tearing his hand through his hair. She heard him sigh heavily, more with bewilderment than disappointment. "Rose . . ." he choked, sputtering, "Did I . . . did I hurt you? Did I do something wrong?" He turned to look at her head on, and she couldn't avoid the intense questioning of his gaze. There was fear in his eyes, fear as thick as the snow outside, and she shook her head helplessly.

"They'll hear, Jack, and we just came back . . . and . . . well . . . I can't . . . I'm . . . after Anna . . . I have to wait . . . we should . . . I haven't heal –"

He cut her off then, understanding completely and not wanting her to have to go down the agonizing path that led to their daughter. "Shh, I know, I know, I'm sorry," he whispered, over and over again. He wanted to beat himself on the head. Why couldn't he ever control his timing? Why was he such an animal? Why hadn't he remembered? It had only been a month, and Rose's delivery had been so difficult and harmful to her body . . . he was such an idiot . . . such an idiot . . .

She stretched out on the bed, sinking her head into a pillow made from down, and reached for him. His worries were forgotten immediately, and he was beside her in seconds, wrapping her in his arms and covering them both with as many blankets as he could find. They spent the rest of the night sleeping peacefully entwined like this, all of their nightmares gone for those few hours, a couple forever together and a boy finally reunited with his home.

Jack sat on the sofa in the living room lacing up his boots. He wanted to leave as soon as possible. Now that he was here, something seemed to have tied strings around his heart and was pulling him violently towards his home with such force that it left him breathless. He hadn't stopped to think if he was ready to see it again. He didn't care. He was going, and that was that. Too much of his life had been spent hiding behind the wall of fear, and it was over.

He had woken up early this morning, before dawn, and had eventually gotten up just as the sun had become a buttery glob on the eastern hills. For some reason, it felt warmer today; still cold, by all means, but a bearable cold, a cold that cleaned the air and left it stingingly fresh. Rose was still sleeping upstairs. She had curled herself around him during the night, and removing her body from his that morning had proven to be a chore. He had done it successfully, and now he let her sleep. She would be up soon; it was almost nine-thirty.

May had served both her brother and Jack steaming hot flapjacks earlier that morning. She still hadn't said much to Jack, and that bothered him. When he had appeared in her door, she had acted like heaven had broken open onto Earth. But soon her adoration had turned to biting indifference, even icy loathing in Rose's case. He didn't know what had gone wrong. If he tried, he could remember how she used to be . . . her black-blue eyes lustrous with devotion, her cheeks pink from laughter, her hair loosening from the pins that entrapped it to fall in one shining motion down her back. He had been so sure that she was his true love, his only love, that she had been his whole world. His dreams had been filled with her, and even though he liked to think he would never had made love to her at such a young age, in truth, for months, it had been like she had been in his bed every night. But the strong passion he felt for her had begun to eerily ebb away, one kiss at a time. He did not race to her when he saw her casually in public; he did not hold her whenever he was with her. It wasn't even that he hadn't wanted to, but rather it just didn't feel right when May was in his arms. She had vanished from his dreams, almost as if his heart was telling him that that place was for somebody else to fill. After weeks of such torment, he had simply let go of her. Now, it occurred to him that he had never questioned how she felt. He had come on so strong, and then he had dropped her like a burden he could no longer carry. He knew that breaking off their relationship had been the right thing. He knew that Rose was the only woman in the world for him, and he knew that she was his soulmate. He knew May would have been a bitter disappointment, because she was not the one that God had made for him. He knew that he loved his wife with every fiber of his being. But after all this, he also knew that he had done a despicable thing to May . . . wanting her so terribly, leading her on so surely, and then leaving without properly explaining himself.

He looked curiously over at where she stood. As he gazed intently at her, he noticed something he had to have missed before. He noticed pain. It dripped off her body like long icicles, reaching out to him and yet cringing back whenever he came near. Suddenly, every bewildering thought about her that he had had since yesterday vanished and compassion winded its silken thread through the room and around her soul. Jack didn't know that he had broken her heart. There was no way that he could possibly know that. Yet, in that second, he did know that he had cut her very deeply. He had been one of her closest friends, and he had destroyed that just because he had given into his body's momentary desires and then, the moment they had quieted, he had left her alone. He had driven a knife into her back. He had hurt her. And in that second, he became truly and desperately sorry. Silently he begged her forgiveness, and silently he apologized for taking advantage of her. But even as he pleaded and groveled, he knew it would never be enough.

May felt shivers rushing up her body and, before she could stop herself, she turned to meet Jack's eyes head on. What she saw took her breath away. He was staring at her so gently, so kindly, and so caringly that, even for a little while, she allowed herself to hope against hope. There was something being transmitted to her that he had never told her before. Her insides stopped working and her heart jumped to her throat. She remembered his lips, his hands, his breath . . . but instead of remembering as one who had lost, she remembered it as one who was about to gain.

He stood up almost as if in a trance, and his eyes never left hers. He opened his mouth, tried to say something, and paused, carefully considering his words. She didn't move, but she felt the smile creeping over her face. Finally, she realized, _finally_, this was it – he understood that destiny demanded that they be together. He felt fate shoving them towards each other. For the first time, he was not fighting it. Her dreams soared.

There was a movement at the top of the stairs, just as Jack had started to get sounds out to form sentences. In her heart, all of Time held its collective breath and the world froze. Her shining eyes began to slowly dim. The apex of relief was pulled roughly down by reality, and she stopped breathing. She wasn't even aware of her entire body crying out for air as his gaze floated away from her. Her whole frame throbbed with a cry for him to stay, for him to not leave her again, for him to forgive her for however she had wronged him. But she knew, in that one moment in which all moments were captured, she knew that she had lost him forever. It was perhaps the closest to dying she had ever been. If willpower could kill, she would have been dead before she hit the floor, because he had just locked his eyes on his wife. They were eyes like she had never seen, eyes full of hunger and unadulterated relief, eyes brimming with an ecstasy that she didn't know one could possess, eyes bathed in passion, wonder, amazement, cherishment . . . Right in front of her face, right there in those glistening orbs of blue, true love was laid naked and raw. It was all there, the whole story of adoration. She didn't even need to look at Rose Dawson to know that they were communicating to each other. She could feel the shy but blazing waves coming from her direction, and in that minute she hated that woman with a hate pure enough to almost seem holy. She felt tormented, taunted by what she couldn't have. She didn't know what to do. Helpless, alone, and afraid, she fled into the kitchen to hide her viciously hot tears

The snow had finally stopped falling and an almost painfully blue sky unfurled above four people carefully picking their way across the glistening white ground below that burned with pale sunlight. It was early afternoon, but very few people were out. Most were at work, either in the little shops that littered either side of the road, or at the lumber mill. A few managed to find a way to get to Eau Claire and were fortunate enough to snag a job at the shoe factory on the western side of the city.

No one else knew that Jack Dawson was back in town. It wasn't normal, he thought now, pondering as he led the group down the winding street. It was strange to be in a place that remained completely oblivious to his presence. He resisted the urge to run with reckless abandon through the soft mounds of snow and through the woods, down the shortcut he had always taken as a boy. He wasn't ready for that yet. Not yet.

They were getting closer now. He felt Rose's hand lightly grasp his shirt as she held onto him to keep her balance on the ice. He wondered what was going through her mind right now. Did she think that he was crazy, to take her to a place like this, a place with no guarantees, a place with no promise? Was she upset to be here?

Even as he pondered these questions, he knew the answer. He knew she'd follow him to Hell if he led her there, and back again. He knew that she trusted him with her life, her everything. That enormous responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders. It wasn't a burden. He wouldn't get rid of it for everything in the world. It just amazed him, maybe even scared him a little.

Her tender touch moved to his arm, and without saying anything, she conveyed everything. She told him that she was here, and that no matter what they found, they would find it together. He was so grateful that he couldn't speak. He simply wrapped his arm around her shoulders and thankfully looked down into her dazzling eyes.


	9. Icy Memories

The house simply looked empty. There was no other word to describe it. Its windows were dark and dusty, its porch warped and fading from the harsh exposure to the elements. It still looked sound, and the light-colored wood that had been used to build it still appeared strong. Some of the mortar had loosened and fallen away, but the layer of stone underneath it in between the planks hadn't budged an inch. Whereas all the other chimneys in town were merrily puffing smoke, this one looked forlorn, like it hadn't been used in years. The flower gardens had long since died and now a mass of twisted, dead weeds and assorted brush sprang from the deep snow. The roof had just been shingled maybe six years ago, and it was holding up well, even against all the weight put on it by snowflakes and ice.

Where the barn had once stood there was now nothing. Since the surviving wood had been charred and dried out, citizens had volunteered to remove it so that it did not pose a threat of spreading yet another fire. They had also salvaged whatever usable thing they found – chisels, hammers, watering cans, even the occasional nail – because they had never questioned their idea that Jack Dawson was never coming back.

Ironically, it was that very same Jack Dawson who stood about twenty feet from his front steps, gazing at his childhood home, his hands shoved deep into worn coat pockets and his blue eyes blazing with something that only he recognized. He hadn't spoken a word since they had set out, and he stood alone, ahead of the rest of the group. He didn't look like he was even breathing.

Shadowy figures moved around in his mind, not quite realistic, but there all the same. Was that his mother, standing in the shadows of the doorway? He could smell her scent of tea leaves and something softer, like lavender. He wanted to go to her, he wanted to hold her, he wanted to apologize a million times – and yet it would never be enough. It seemed to him like she was trying to reach out to him, trying to grasp onto him, but before he could so much as move she faded away, and emptiness was all that took her place. The thought that he had done that, the idea that he had killed the beautiful woman he remembered, burst past his carefully built dam in his heart and the irrational fury he had not felt for years filled him again. It was more than wrath, it was a wild rage doubled with such sharp angst that it tore at him viciously. He did not cry. He glared at his home, a home filled with so many memories, as though he could communicate to his younger self what a disaster he had caused and maybe reverse it somehow. He couldn't.

He felt the air stir beside him, but it was several moments before he noticed that Peter had gone to the front door and was unlocking it. Far too suddenly, all the anger left and was replaced with apprehension. He didn't allow himself to stop and think about the last time he had been here, or about the boiling flames and billowing smoke. No, Jack Dawson confronted this like he confronted everything else – head on, consequences be damned.

"No, Pete, I'll do it." His voice sounded so calm, so even, that he could have fooled the world into thinking he was as comfortable as he had ever been. Only he knew better, only he could feel his heart pounding so hard that it sent bile up his throat, only he could hear fear whispering cold, stony words into his ear that made his spine seize up. He ignored all of it. He strode to his steps and thudded up them, stopping briefly to brush some of the heavy snow from the wood. Then he took the key from his friend's hand and managed to fit it into the brass keyhole. There was a groan, as the keyhole adjusted to being used again after being neglected for so long. Afterwards came that one eternal moment in which the whole world seemed to hold its breath, and then followed the inevitable click of the key turning a lock.

The door was swollen with misuse and didn't quite sit on its hinges correctly anymore, making it nearly impossible to open. Then again, Jack wasn't even trying. His fingers only danced feebly on the knob, turning it slightly, pulling back, and then going forward again. He couldn't make himself stop once he got into this do-it-or-die mentality, but at the same time, he couldn't make himself go through with it. He took deep steadying breaths, nearly silent, but so full that he was almost drunk on air. This was it, he realized, this was that one of those seconds in which nothing in his life would be the same after it was over.

The minute danced on the chilly breeze, brushing across his face and piercing his soul. He remembered, as much as he tried not to, he remembered . . . he remembered the blackness, he remembered the terror of being something so small lost in something so monstrous, he remembered the eyes of the people . . . the children . . . so cold and empty . . .

And then it just came, in an epiphany maybe straight from God Himself. Jack was so sick of letting fear control him. He didn't think he could stand it anymore. His irises blazed with determination as he threw his shoulder against the humble wood in front of him and kicked it open to reveal the inside of his home. He strode into the living room like he still did this everyday, and waited for his past to catch up with him.

He heard Rose gasp, but he didn't turn around. He was simply frozen on the spot. Years of being locked up had preserved this old, warm, vanilla-like scent that had always accompanied this house. The planked floor was still in good condition, and the red and yellow rug thrown over it in front of the fireplace didn't seem to be damaged much, even from mice. The deep brown leather sofa from the furniture store down the way still sat in the same place, and the two winged armchairs still framed it on either side. The mantle was dusty, but still deep brown wood. The glass windows were dark but none of them had been broken.

He didn't move, and none of the people with him seemed to be willing to go deeper into the place before he did. With a sting, he saw a newspaper still folded on the coffee table. He felt tears pushing heavily against his forehead, but he refused to let them fall. He determinedly advanced to the corner and picked up the paper, stuffing it in the inside of his coat. There was just no possible way he could make himself go through that right now.

"Yeah, uh, Jack . . . this is it . . . you two, um, you go on and check it out. I'll . . . I'll go back to the house and get your suitcases and, uh, May will go buy some groceries."

Pete was acutely uncomfortable for some reason; could he feel the ghosts too? Could he feel Jack's father's leathery hand on his shoulder or Jack's mother's soft hair on his neck?

"Don't . . . don't you worry about the grocery money there, Dawson. We'll cover it for today. Let's go, May." May shot Jack one long, begging glance, but before he could read it, she was gone. The door shut softly behind them.

Rose leaned against the wall, breathing in the musty scent deeply. Before she realized what was happening, she and her husband were alone. She gazed at him with concern, wondering what was going through his mind. He didn't even look at her. He just stood in the center of the room, hands shoved deep in his pockets. His confident swagger had fled, his certainty had vanished. He looked so lost, like a man that didn't know where his childhood had gone.

She wanted to go to him, but she made herself stay where she was, pinned against the doorframe. She didn't know what he was thinking, but she knew he needed time alone . . . right?

_Rose,_ a tiny voice whispered warningly in her brain, _don't forget what marriage is. Don't loose sight of your partnership. Don't you dare turn this sacred thing into what Cal saw it as, don't shut yourself out._

That was all she needed to shake herself out of her ignorance. The very thought of Cal's cold eyes made a piercing pain shoot through her chest. She straightened and went to Jack, wrapping her slender arms around his stiff body. Even when he didn't say anything, or even move, she simply rested her head on his chest and buried her face in his jacket. She wouldn't let him push her away, even when he tried to step out of her grasp. The weak resistance he set up wasn't enough to tear her from him.

Suddenly, a mangled sob escaped from his throat. Almost violently, he grabbed her and pulled her against him so hard she thought she heard her ribs crack. He bowed his head into her hair, and she felt him shaking. Startled at this new change that had so drastically occurred in him, all she could do was hold him as he wept as bitterly as she had ever seen him weep, for the first time since before Anna Jamie.

May carefully picked through loaves of bread at the bakery. It was the only bakery in town, but surprisingly it wasn't crowded today. Just a few women poked their way around the store, looking for leftovers from New Year's that were cheap but still good. Over in the corner stood Mrs. Peterson, Eliza's mother, scrounging for rolls. Mrs. Peterson was an older woman who loved to talk, and, May realized with an inward groan, if she recognized May she would certainly start to ramble on about something . . . her husband, her daughter, even her damn dog . . .

May was not in the mood to talk right now. She wasn't in the mood for anything. Silently but defiantly, she drew her brown wool scarf over her head. It was a meager and childish thing to do, she knew, but avoidance was the most polite thing she could muster at the moment. She turned away and fished out one of the best looking loaves from the bottom of the basket. She checked its underside to make sure that there was no mold, trying with all her might to keep her focus on the task at hand and not with him.

It was no use. Why did he have to storm back into her life like he had? She had been finally getting over him, finally accepting that she would have to love him only in memory, finally allowing that he might never return to her. At least then she could imagine him in dying in a street corner but dying with her name on his lips. At least then she could preserve him in her memory as hers. But now she knew better. Now she knew that he wasn't thinking about her at all.

Why did he still have to be so sweet, so compassionate, so handsome, so carefree? Why was he everything she wanted when she couldn't have him? Why did he have such beautiful eyes, such a heart-tugging grin, such a manly presence? Why?

She was so frustrated that she cracked the shell of the pie she had been unknowingly checking over. With a sigh, she resigned herself to the fact that she now had to buy it. It was pumpkin pie. Jack's favorite. She sighed again, longer this time.

_May smiled at her mother when she brought out the slices of pumpkin pie. It was beautiful, the first homemade pie the Filners had had all autumn. For her fifteenth birthday, May had chosen to have a small home celebration. There was no use in having any sort of big party, because all of May's world could fit into her kitchen. Its name was Jack._

_He was right across the table from her, boldly holding her gaze with his intense eyes. She had never known eyes like that had existed, eyes so deep it looked like she was looking into destiny. They were the most magnificent shade of blue, so probing that they read even the deepest depths of her soul. In front of her brother, her mother, her father, and God, Jack continued to give her that . . . that look. The look that made her knees knock together and her hands shake. His grin made it seem like he knew something she didn't, and it made her feel weak inside._

_Even as he complimented her mother shamelessly and ravenously dug into his own piece of pie, he hardly tore his glance from her for more than two seconds. Warm flush crept to her cheeks. It made her feel loved like nothing ever had._

_Later, as Jack gallantly wished her happy birthday and slipped into his jacket so he could leave, May instantly volunteered to walk him home. When her brother opened his mouth to protest, May silenced him with a steely look. Her parents had gone upstairs and no one stood between May and the door but Peter, who instantly backed down beneath her glare._

_Her heart hammered as Jack helped her into her own coat and waited for her to slip into her shoes. He courteously opened the door for her and held out his hand to assist her in climbing down the front porch steps as the heavy oak banged shut behind him. When they were safely far away enough from her house so that they couldn't be spied upon, his hand suddenly closed around her wrist and he pulled her to a stop._

_"Hey," he murmured quietly, turning her to him. He looked like he was going to keep talking, but a hunger that was deeper than any hunger she had seen in him before flared in his irises and he pulled her to him, his heart hammering a thousand songs into her own, his chest separated from hers only by inches of clothing, his breath ragged and hot in her cold ears. He didn't kiss her mouth. He simply held her there, so tightly each bone had to rearrange underneath his hands. His head buried in her neck and she felt his lips on her collarbone. She sighed, so quietly it might as well have been a whisper, and threaded her icy hands through his hair. _

_Something stormy and wild and craggy filled her so violently that her breath was torn from her. She wanted something, something only he could give her, and she wanted it right now. She couldn't think, the weight of it was so extreme. It made her head spin and the empty road around them faze in and out of color. He was so close that she couldn't not smell him, that slightly soapy, slightly sweaty sunshine smell, mixed with the sweet scent of charcoal. It was more than she could take and she started to tremble even as her yearning fingertips traveled down his neck and to the hem of his shirt underneath his coat. He jolted when he felt her freezing palms exploring the intimacies of his stomach, each angular cut of his ribs, snaking behind him to caress his back, reaching up to trace the sinewy shapes of his biceps. For a moment, he simply closed his eyes. She felt his eager reactions to her touch, the way his spine curved into the cup of her hand, the way he shivered as much as she did with just as much desire, the way his lips were ever so slowly making their way to hers. _

_Finally, he kissed her. It was a kiss of the likes she had never shared before and would never share again. It brought all of the pent up want and even all of her soul out of the deepest reaches of her body. It unlocked her spirit; it blew windswept across her heart. But all too soon, he was gently taking her hands into his and pulling them away from the warmth of his chest. All too soon, he stepped back, leaving her gasping and confused and deliriously lovesick. Even in her trance she saw a sudden change of mind, an irrevocable decision, change the lines of his face. He said just two words in nothing more than a murmur that hardly disturbed the suddenly searing air around them, but they disappointed her nonetheless. "We can't."_

_There was no explanation, neither from his tongue nor from his eyes. Just the statement, just the fact. He watched her mortified expression for a moment, letting her thrash momentarily in her agony. Then he whispered, "We just can't. After you walk to me at that altar, we can. But not now. And don't look at me like that," he added a bit more strongly as pleading sprang into her eyes. "Don't, please, or I might give in, and I'd never be able to live with myself. I can't take advantage of you. Now, I'm gonna walk you back to your house. You didn't think I'd let you walk home alone, did ya?"_

_He held out his arm and she was so stunned that she instinctively took it. Half of her was touched by his honor; the other half was angry and didn't understand why he hadn't done what he so obviously wanted to do. She sounded like a pouting child, she knew, but he shouldn't have led her on like that if he didn't intend to go to where the path he had carved would have brought them. _

_Yet, as annoyed as she was with him, she kept stealing appreciative glances at his handsome face shadowed in the moonlight. He was so wonderful looking that she couldn't keep her gaze off of him for too long. It made her feel dizzy just to be with him. This, she decided, was how she wanted to feel for the rest of her life. He had said . . . he had said . . . had he really said that? Had he truly said that she was going to walk to him at an altar? Had he just said that he was going to marry her? It had slipped out of his mouth so naturally, so carelessly, that she hadn't bothered to listen. But now those words hit her like a million bolts of lightning, and the wide expanse of possibility raced ahead into the future. She could see her dress, their children . . ._

_God, she couldn't breathe. It was too fantastic for her poor heart to take on right now. She was too full._

_The darkness made it impossible to read his expression, but even just through his forearm she could still feel taut desire and barely suppressed need. It brought a smile to her face even when Jack simply brushed his lips affectionately across the top of her head when they reached her front steps instead of locking lips with her like he had done in the past. She knew what he felt, and it made her skip up the fourteen steps to her bedroom and blow him kisses out of her window that he jokingly returned as he strutted away._

Tears pushed stubbornly to the edges of her eyelids. If she tried hard enough, she could still feel his arms around her like they had been six years ago. It had been so wonderful, to know that she was the only girl in the world to him. And now it was over.

She had been so foolish then, so willing to believe whatever he had told her. If Jack Dawson had said that the sky was really pink and someone just painted blue over it, she wouldn't have questioned him. It had been a dangerous position to be in, leaving her whole self out unprotected for him to do what he wished with. He had never hurt her. He had been a perfect gentleman through and through, never made her feel uncomfortable, never pushed her past kissing, and had tenderly refused her when she herself had tried to cross that border. Never in her life had she been so vulnerable but so happy.

But then he had left. With a physical pain in her heart, she remembered the day of his parents' funeral. He had put an end to their relationship months before, and that had nearly killed her, but he had not left her life. She still saw him, still talked to him, still let him walk her home from church. But on that day, watching him stand in front of his parents' caskets and whisper things to them that she couldn't hear, she knew she'd lost him. She knew the moment he turned and she saw the dead look in his eyes fading to be replaced with a burning need to escape. He hadn't even said goodbye. She was told to accept that she'd never see him again.

Then, God had finally given her a miracle. He had shown up on her porch. The moment she had seen his eyes, she had known it was him. She had known that he was still her Jack when his arms closed around her and he murmured her name. She had known, that is, until she saw the gorgeous head of red hair behind him.

With that thought, a hard shield encrusted her heart as she heavily dropped the pie into her shoulder bag with the bread. She had been planning to maybe buy some flour dough and make Jack's bread herself, but the thought of his wife eating it made her feel sick. She instead stomped to the counter and threw down some money, marching out of the shop before Greg Nancaster could give her back her change. May Filner didn't want to turn into a bitter old spinster who wore too much perfume and lived with eight cats, she really didn't, but resignedly that fate was looking more and more like her only option.

Rose was washing years of dirt and dust from the old porcelain in the cupboards. She wasn't hungry, and she knew Jack wouldn't eat anything, but she needed to keep her hands busy, so that's what she did. When she had gotten like this before . . . in her old life . . . she had stormily played on the piano, letting her fingers dance where they willed, trying to play her hurt out onto the keys and away from her heart.

Her husband was sitting at the table she had just dusted with an old rag she had found, looking almost freakishly detached from the world around him. He didn't blink, didn't move, hardly breathed. He hadn't said anything to her since they had walked in the door. It wasn't cold ignorance, really, but a helpless ignorance – he couldn't stop himself. He cleared his throat every once and awhile, idly tapping his fingers on the wooden surface in front of him, but his eyes never focused on anything. He remained staring at something only he could see.

A sudden burst of water woven with ice randomly spat from the metal pipe into the metal basin she was working in. The pipes themselves had to have frozen and thawed so many times over the winters she was surprised they hadn't burst. Somehow, maybe because most of the pipework was located beneath where the frost reached the ground, they had remained intact. The water they brought was full of minerals and smelled almost coppery. It was so cold it made her slender hands red and inflamed.

The last dish was cleaned and stacked again in the newly swiped-down cupboard. She wanted to change out of her travel clothes; she had been wearing them for far too long. All of her other dresses were still packed neatly in the suitcase that Peter had just dropped off at the front door, and she hadn't wanted to wear another one this morning without knowing where the next opportunity to wash clothes would come from.

Now she leaned against the counter. There was still so much more to do, but she couldn't force herself to work anymore, not with Jack sitting there looking so lost, like a little boy. She wished desperately that she could do something. Such utter loneliness written on that man's face hurt her deeply, cutting to her soul. She walked shakily over to him and sat down across from him, delicately, not making so much as one single sound, hardly stirring the air around her.

He looked up at her, and for the first time in over an hour he seemed to snap into reality. The rugged pain vanished from his features. A tentative smile curved his lips upwards, and slowly, almost as though he was exhausted, he wrapped his hands around hers, bonding them just as surely as their hearts were bonded.

It was late at night and Jack could hear, as crazy as it seemed, the silence – the cold, winter silence that was blanketed by snow. A fire, for the first time in years, blazed and crackled beyond the hearth and in the fireplace. Its flames leaped and jumped and danced, licking at the stone walls that confined it, throwing strange shadows across the room and shading everything a warm hue of orange. Rose slept peacefully on the couch by him, her hair spilling over the armrest and falling to almost the floor. He watched the comforting rhythm of her chest rising and falling with each breath she took, her mouth slightly parted, her eyes softly closed.

He leaned back deeper into the big chair that had once been his father's. He could actually still smell the scent that had always lingered on Pa, a hint of smoke and coffee, but mostly leather. It disturbed him that he didn't have the urge to cry. Maybe he had, without knowing it, let go of his past long ago. But then how had it managed to haunt him so severely just over the past year? How had it entered his nightmares, mixing with all his dreams, making him wake up in a cold sweat? How could he so suddenly be at peace with it now?

Maybe this was just what he had needed, he decided. Maybe he had needed to come home in order to allow home to move on. There was a deep sadness, yes, but there was no more fear. He could still almost see the ghosts of his parents, walking around him, by him, through him, but he knew it was only his imagination. He knew that his mother, beautiful and soft, was dead. He knew she would always be dead. Yet he also knew she would always be alive, too. She was still here, and he still needed her. He, a man who had seen enough pain to kill him, a man who had been thrown into situations that threatened to destroy him, a man who was a husband and father, but had lost his child . . . he was still a boy who desperately needed his mother. Instead of filling his heart with terror, warm relief drenched his body as he heard her whisper to him that it wasn't his fault. It wasn't his fault that she had laid in a pine box while he had lit off to Europe. It wasn't his fault that his father didn't tan leather anymore, or work at the lumber mill, or go for coffee with the local men on Saturdays.

He closed his eyes against the bright firelight, letting it warm his icy body and thaw his frozen heart.

Rose was up with the sun, pulling back the dusty drapes to look at the winter wonderland outside. She smiled when she saw her husband's head lolling against the side of the chair. So he had finally fallen asleep. She had tried with all her might to stay up with him last night, but not even undying love could create a miracle as powerful as that.

The fire in the fireplace had burned down to glowing coals, and she blew them back to life just like she had watched her maids do in Philadelphia and London. A crazy, almost laughable thought struck her. What would her mother say if she saw Rose now, on her hands and knees like a street girl, trying to keep the ashes alive with heat just so that she wouldn't freeze? What if she saw the worn out, deserted house in which Rose was now making her home?

But the humor of that was struck away by a darker question. What would Rose have thought, a year ago, maybe, if she had known her life would turn out like this? Would she have had the courage to venture onward like she had? Would she have been able to give up everything – _everything_ – for a man she loved but hardly knew, for someone who had nothing to offer but his heart? The answer was imminent. No, she wouldn't have been able to see this coming, and if she had, she would have run away. That idea made her terribly sad. She could have missed out on this life and not ever realized what beauty she had denied the right to exist. The very suggestion that she might have had to go on without Jack made her feel sick. She would have died. It was no exaggeration. She just wouldn't have been able to survive in that world.

She traced patterns in the condensation on the windowpane, aimlessly allowing her finger to sketch lines and circles and squares without reason. Then again, life had changed so much for her. All it had taken was one ship, one moment, one look, and her entire future was flip flopped. She remembered whirling with Jack on the deck of _Titanic_, before the iceberg but after they had made love. She remembered knowing that she couldn't go back. She wanted to live in a garret and sleep next to this strangely wonderful man. She wanted to be so cold in the winter her fingers ached and so hot in the summer she slept without any blankets on at all. She wanted to wake up every morning to his sweet kisses and live every day in apprehension of him coming home.

She heard Jack stir as she moved away from the windows and peered down the dark hallway that led to the other half of the small house. Like she had been caught stealing from something that was not hers, she whirled around so quickly she almost fell. Guiltily, she bit her lip as Jack sighed and a sleepy grin crossed his face. "What has my Rose been up to this mornin', hmm?" He asked groggily, stretching his arms above his head.

"I . . . I just . . . I was just curious . . ." She stumbled over her words, not knowing how to explain. She _had _been curious, that was true, but she had no right see the rest of this place without him.

He pulled himself up to a standing position and stumbled in his socked feet across the old floor. "Oh, Rose, Rose, Rose," he muttered quietly, coming towards her even as he wiped sleep out of his eyes. "It's your house, too."

There was such tenderness in his voice, such sincere hope that she would accept what he had to give her, that she nearly melted. She was too afraid to go near him, for the desires inside of her were overwhelming and she knew she couldn't give into them. When he stopped a few feet in front of her, she didn't cross the space into his arms, even though her entire body screamed at her to do so. Instead, she broke the somberness of the moment by playfully asking, "So, are you going to show me it?"

His grin widened, and then he nodded. His hand reached towards hers, and she allowed him to loosely link his fingertips with hers. His touch made her dizzy but she followed him without a word as he pulled her along behind him. "This is my room," he whispered softly, and pushed open the nearest door on the left, one of grainy oak. She didn't detect any hesitation from him anymore, just expectation. He wanted her to be part of this, he really did. Her nose caught the familiar strong scent of charcoal as he led her across the threshold and into the place where a part of him must still be sewn.

It was beautiful, in a way only Jack could make anything beautiful. The first thing she noticed was that there were dozens of sketches nailed up on the wall above his bed. Something inside of her yearned for those pictures so deeply that she involuntarily walked to the wall and leaned over a wooden desk, trying to be as close to them as she could, trying to breathe them in.

They were all dated from 1905, 1906, and 1907. Something about them was beautifully simple and yet uniquely intricate. There were children playing in a cornfield, their grins contagious even through the paper. The next row down featured several scenes of young women dancing in the grass, feet bare and hair wild, holding sides that ached with laughter. She saw an old man saddling up a horse, each line on his face seeming to contribute to his life. Then, perhaps the most heartwarming of all, she found a drawing of a middle aged couple. They were dressed in plain, homespun clothes, with their arms wrapped around each other, sitting on a porch swing. The wife's head rested on her husband's shoulder, and some of her wavy hair spilled from its twist to fall on his chest. She looked very peaceful, very content, and very in love. Her eyes were focused on something in the distance that brought a soft smile to her face. The man was looking at his wife, and the expression in his eyes was so sweet and gentle that it made Rose want to cry. She knew that look. She felt it on her right now, its warmth coming from directly behind her.

Her finger reached up to delicately brush the lines making up James and Anna Dawson's faces, their intertwined bodies, their everyday magnificence. Awe crept across her, for they might as well have been standing next to her in the room, she felt they were so close. There was something almost young and innocent about their love, something that went deeper than devotion and into the timeless realm of adoration. "Jack," she whispered, hardly able to talk because her throat had constricted so much. "Jack . . . they're . . . unbelievable."

There was no other word to use. When she closed her eyes, she could still feel them and the other sketches; she could almost hear their voices weaving through the air, some light with happiness and others thick with sorrow and regret, some untamable and giddy and others peaceful and solitary. They braided together in a song that she thought had to be the most beautiful thing she had ever heard on Earth.

She felt the pleasant heat of breath on her neck and then Jack's arms wound around her waist as he buried his face in her hair. He didn't cry. She couldn't even tell if he was hurting. All she knew was that he needed her there as much as she needed to be there.

Jack sat with Rose on his old bed, the green-and-blue-checked comforter soft beneath them. They had been here for the past half an hour, just talking about everything – about their childhoods, about their dreams, about their happiness at being out of New York. Slowly, this room seemed to be coming to life again. The fire's warmth drained down the hallway and reached them so that Jack finally took off his jacket and helped Rose out of her coat for the first time since they had come here.

"It must have been wonderful, growing up here," Rose said, her voice filled with regret. He looked over at her for a moment, carefully studying her face. He saw all of the sorrow etched in her eyes, in her heart.

"It's almost more wonderful here, now," he whispered, reaching for her hand. "With you." He felt the tattered pieces of his soul beginning to move themselves back together, like a weaver delicately pulling together her masterpiece. This feeling of being put back into one piece, whole, actually was more fulfilling than any feeling he had ever had in the house before. He knew he could overcome loss, and it was wonderful. Everything delicate and fragile within him suddenly stopped toppling over the edge of the abyss of his spirit, and moved back to where it was safe and balanced. _This_, he thought, _this is how a man in love feels_.

He moved his palm up over Rose's arm as she looked at him with eyes that were full and a mouth that trembled. She was speechless, he knew, but there was a thankfulness that lingered in her expression that he couldn't understand. Why was she grateful, when he was the one whom had been saved? When she had made his life worth living? This mystery of passion was one that, in his whole life, he would never understand.

His hand slipped behind her to cup the back of her head while the other's fingertips traced her jawbone. It was still almost terrifying to touch her like this; it was still so much like touching the moon for him. Never had he envisioned that she might someday be his. It still felt like she was angelic; it still felt like this was all too good to be true. He was still scared.

Something inside of her hesitated, and she looked out the window behind him for a moment, breaking her gaze from him. He searched her face. He wanted to kiss his wife. He wanted to hold her in a way that neither of them had been strong enough to do for months. He wanted to enfold her body with his own, and hug her so tight her bones cracked. Confused as to why she was being so distant, he did nothing but stare at her for several seconds.

Then quite suddenly, she had flung herself into his arms and was pressing herself so close against him that there was no air in between them. The distinctly flowery scent of her shampoo and the soft powdery aroma of her skin mixed intoxicatingly around him for the first time in far too long. He didn't do anything but keep her in his arms for a moment, maybe a minute or maybe two hours, he didn't know. The feeling of his Rose finally again against his chest was something that could not be measured in time like other normal things could. There was no more Time, just a man and a woman, just Jack and Rose, just how everything was supposed to be.

He felt her stir against him. Without warning, her face was mere inches from his own. They simply looked at each other, not blinking, almost like they couldn't believe their counterpart was real. And then slowly, ever so slowly, Jack's lips felt their way to Rose's forehead, and then her cheek, and then finally to her own lips.

Jack never even started to move towards making love. The honeyed depths and the silkiness of Rose's mouth was enough to satisfy him forever.

The Dawsons had been in Chippewa Falls for over a week, and it was Sunday again. Rose carefully arranged her hair in a delicate upsweep, pinning the curls back off her neck and stabbing the twists with pins. The usual stubborn pieces of hair managed the work their way out of the band she wound around her hair, but she didn't even bother with them anymore. Only one or two were long enough to lie on her shoulders and dangle onto her neckline anyway. It was chilly out to wear her hair completely up, yes, but this would be her first public appearance, her first open declaration of, "Yes, I live here now." She wanted desperately to be accepted.

The dress she was wearing was something that Peter had convinced May to let her borrow. It was cotton, and not the high quality she was once privileged, but it was still beautiful. It had long sleeves; there was really no other choice in this kind of weather. It was a deep emerald green, the kind of green that set her hair and eyes on fire, the kind of green that her maid Trudy had once said was made just for her. Green faux lace and beads dripped like icicles from the dress itself, making it appear much more expensive than it actually was. Rose didn't like that, she admitted to herself. She preferred simple these days, but the elegancy of the gown was something that Peter had insisted she have. It would have been rude to refuse, and she owned very little that was suitable to wear. The neckline was reasonably cut, not overly low but not along the neck, and scooped around on her collar bone. She had also borrowed a silvery cotton shawl that she wrapped around her shoulders. It was possibly the nicest article of clothing May had, or so her brother had said, so Rose had to promise to take good care of it. Rose had wanted to laugh – her mother would have killed her if so much of a stain had ever appeared on any one of her garments, so Rose was wonderfully skilled in the art of garment keeping – but she had managed to restrain herself.

Rose gently latched one of the only two necklaces she had, other than the one that she would never again touch. This one was made of gold-colored metal that Jack had found at a pawn shop near their old apartment. The other was braids of a substance almost like sea grass that was strung with shells and stones from the beaches of New York, and that had been something that a merchant had been selling on the streets.

She was standing in Jack's bedroom, but he was not there. Instead, he was trying to find the old shovel he remembered to clear off the walk and the porch. She twisted the wedding rings on her left ring finger and turned to face the mirror.

_Rose stared into nothingness, her eyes unfocused and her face expressionless. Her hands were clasped tightly together in front of her. She hardly even breathed. Vaguely, she heard the high, tinkling sound of her mother's laughter nearby. Somewhere, someone dropped a wine goblet. The echo of it shattering into a thousand pieces rang throughout the house, seeming to take hours to complete, even though it must have been only seconds. In her mind's eye, Rose saw the glass slipping out of a loose grip, and falling until it smashed into the floor and was destroyed. A door was slammed closed near the kitchen. Footsteps padded down the hardwood floors of the entrance hall. A manservant carrying a tray of caviar danced around Rose and managed to wriggle by her and out into the flowery courtyard. His name was Jim, Rose remembered suddenly. He couldn't have been more than nineteen years old. She had nursed a sweet spot for him when she was a young girl. He was from somewhere near Pittsburgh. His brother lived down in Georgia, working on an orchard. His mother had died last winter, and his father had been dead for years._

_All of these things, these comforting things that didn't change, that she thought she knew, were the only things she had to hold onto now. Her world was rapidly evolving from one of china dolls and dress up clothes to something darker, more dishonorable. She turned her head ever so slightly to look at the huge white blossoms that her mother had ordered be placed on every table in the house. They drooped under the weight of their petals and dipped towards the ground. For every birthday before this one, Rose's father had commanded that the local florist bring in dozens, even hundreds, of white roses. The white, he had explained, symbolized his daughter's purity. The flower, of course, was in honor of that daughter. She hadn't understood what kind of purity he had been talking about. When she had hit her teenage years, she had thought maybe she knew. But he hadn't been referring to sexual purity, like she had guessed, even in her naivety. Rose hardly knew what sex was, and years ago had been no different. No, he had wanted to keep her pure from the filth that surrounded her; he had wanted to shut her away from the corruption that plagued her world. He had never told her in so many words, though, and by the time she had figured it out, it was far too late._

_For not the first time, bitter anger reared in her heart and made her throat burn with unshed tears. She wanted to remember the father she had known, the rock steady, strong, enduring man who had loved her with everything he had and worked hard to keep his family a loving whole when so many others were drifting apart. She wanted to remember his laughter, but all she could bring up in her mind was the sound of his last few breaths, the gurgling death rattle that had chilled her to the bone and taken away her soul as he lay in his bedroom. Her brain brought forth the pictures of him there, in his bed, sweat soaking the sheets and his hands clenching and unclenching furiously beside him. The doctors shook their heads helplessly and moved to doorway. Her mother was absolutely silent, her hand on her husband's chest, until the end came. Then there was the piercing wail that split through the house, making Rose's eardrums vibrate, and the tears falling hot and thick into both of their laps. It had been only days later that Rose had learned, that she had seen the papers with the word "last notice" stamped on them in bright red, that she had learned how irresponsible her father had been. She knew he hadn't been going to business meetings on Tuesdays, but gambling sessions. And it had hurt._

_"Miss Rose, Mrs. DeWitt-Bukater requests you meet her under the pavilion. She says it's imminent." There Jim was again, his brown hair curling sweetly into his face, his eyes urgent. She wondered if he would kiss her back if she kissed him. Then she wondered if she'd ever have the strength to kiss him. He wasn't very far away, really, just a few feet. _

_"There's someone she'd like you to meet," he went on, as if he wasn't sure she had heard him. She nodded, and then smiled carefully. He was wearing the uniform that her mother required when company was over: a starched white shirt and carefully ironed black pants. A dark bowtie was tied underneath his collar. He was nothing but a crush. Yet she felt like being a little bit difficult today, a little bit trying to the rules of Society. She wished she was brave enough to tell him how she had felt about him for the past few years, but she wasn't. Instead she tried to stall. She didn't want to go to her mother._

_"I don't feel like meeting any more of her 'friends,'" she murmured, like one would to a confidante. She leaned against the wall. Rose had met so many of her mother's acquaintances that she knew exactly what to expect – a young man with his pockets bursting with money. Some were handsome, some weren't. Some had a sense of humor, others she could liken to a dried bean. None had smitten her, none had given her what she wanted, and none had come even close to taking her heart. She breathed deeply and sighed. "She's trying to marry me off so quickly that I don't even know what's happening half the time. It seems like she's already decided on my dress, on the place, on everything but the groom. That much, it seems, remains in my power – but not for long." Her voice trembled with tears at the very thought of the arranged marriage that was sitting, huge and foreboding, on the horizon. It was unavoidable and she knew it. _

_"I'd like to think you won't let that happen." His voice was quiet, but she heard the compassion and the hope. She saw a hint of a grin break on his face, but he stifled it before it dawned completely. Her heart leapt a little, like a young girl caught up in the glories of puppy love, but that innocent feeling was soon overcome by the gloom the idea of a set up marriage brought. She breathed slowly, deliberately. After her mother said the word, she would be forced to walk down the aisle. All of her freedom would be gone: the freedom to learn how to love, the freedom to find her soulmate, the freedom to be herself. She trembled uncontrollably at the thought of being pushed into even deeper bondage. The very idea of being thrown into chains and shackles caused her to close her eyes for a moment to regain her composure. Even that could not lessen the weight of her spirit._

_"Mmm . . . I'd like to think so, too, but look at me, Jim. It's my seventeenth birthday, but instead of celebrating I'm hiding in the corner." Rose answered, her voice unsteady. She looked up at him with desperation, pleaded for him to tell her that she was different and that the web of finance wouldn't be able to draw her in. Her lip started bleeding because she had bitten it for too long. Tears trembled on her eyelashes, ready to fall, just as fragile as her heart._

_She looked up at him and saw the resolve in his eyes, the glimmer of gold that peeked from the warm chocolate brown, the swirling colors that said he had finally made a decision. Suddenly his lips were on hers. She was shocked for a moment, hardly able to move, afraid that someone would see and yet at the same time terrified someone wouldn't. She was too surprised to breathe. She understood that this was wrong, that she should not be kissing a manservant that worked for her household, but the more she tried to fight it the more enticing it became until she was forced to give in to it at all costs. She liked how he hadn't gone through protocol, how gentle he was, and how good of a kisser he turned out to be. She liked it when his arms came around her waist and her hands rested on his chest. She liked how she could smell his cologne, the gentle scent tickling her nose. There were no fireworks, no blurry lovesick parade that was struck up in her head, no amazement, but there was definitely pleasure – something she hadn't felt for a long time. Maybe he wasn't her soulmate, maybe he wasn't her knight in shining armor, but these were not the thoughts crossing through her mind right now. All she could think about was how wonderful it was to be free. She had her taste of liberty in that moment, and from then on, she would never want to let it go._

_"Rose!" The shrill voice of her mother rang throughout the foyer, causing agonizing chills to run up Rose's spine. She drew from Jim like she had been electrocuted, jumping back so swiftly she hit the wall. His hands traveled from her middle to her face, brushing one finger against her skin. The look he gave her struck her as so compassionate that she thought she was going to burst into tears. There was true understanding, a knowledge that she could never openly be with him, that this kiss they had just shared hidden in a corner was the first and would have to be the last. Real regret coupled with acceptance looked down at her, so honest that it broke her heart._

_"Go," he whispered, soft enough that his voice only carried mere inches. He tenderly pressed his lips to her forehead. Her tormented soul silently begged him to stop her from going. She wanted to be next to him, she wanted to flirt with him, she wanted to kiss him again. But all of the sudden, he had gone and vanished back into the kitchen from whence he came. It happened so quickly that she wondered if he had really been there at all. She pressed her hand over her kissed-bruised lips to affirm to herself that it had. Whether or not he was meant to be hers forever didn't matter to her right then, all she knew was that she had never experienced anything like that before and her mother would never let her again._

_"Rose! Rose! Where are you!" The sharp clacking of fast-moving heels became louder and louder and Rose fought for her composure, knowing that nothing but pain would result if she didn't. She tried to be like her mother, strangely, in that second. Ruth DeWitt-Bukater could turn emotions off so quickly that sometimes Rose wondered if she really had any at all. _

_In moments, she felt the heat draining her face and felt she could attribute whatever color was left to the stifling August heat, if anyone asked. She could wait no longer, her mother sounded like she was almost on top of her, and she didn't want to be caught in such a suspicious manner. She positioned herself to make it seem as if she was just coming in from the courtyard, and not a second too soon._

_"Rose! Where have you been! I've been looking all over God's creation for you." The last sentence came from her mother's mouth like a hiss, so full of blame that Rose briefly indulged her amusement and wondered if perhaps she'd killed anybody lately that she had forgotten about. "There is a man who wants to meet you, not just any man, mind you, and I won't let you ruin it this time!"_

_The groan involuntarily escaped Rose's mouth. She pressed her lips tightly together to make it stop, but Ruth mother had already heard, and the icy look that came from her bitter green eyes burned Rose like cold steel. Rose opened her mouth to protest. "I won't –" _

_"Yes, you will," her mother answered coldly, looking at her with such disdain that it made Rose cringe. The feeling that Jim had managed to give her – the feeling of being loved – was gone as quickly as he had been. She felt lonely and forsaken; she felt worthless. And it hurt. _

_She lost her ability to believe in herself. Instead of fighting like she inwardly wanted to, she simply followed her mother like a puppy dog being taken out of the rain. She did not belong to herself. She had no control over what happened to her. It was a thought that horrified her._

_"I found her!" The fakeness in her mother's voice made Rose want to gag. She saw the smile now pasted on Ruth's face, but could not force one to rise on her own. She was being showed like a prize horse, again, and she had to swallow violently to keep tears from overflowing. The laughter she heard grinded against her spirit like a nail. "This," Ruth said, sounding so proud that she might have been talking about her own son, "is Nathan Hockley, and his son, Caledon." _

_For the first time, Rose looked up. Shock caught her off guard. The name Hockley was splashed across newspapers everywhere. They owned the wealthiest steel mills in America, perhaps in the continent. The family had enough money to make God seem poor. Instead of being delighted to meet their acquaintance, like the rest of the crowd seem to be, Rose was repulsed. They were as much into this façade as it was possible to get, and it disgusted her._

_"Ah, this is the young beauty I have spoke of," the older one murmured. She remembered him from somewhere – a ball, perhaps? His salt and pepper hair gave him a distinguished look befitting for a man who could probably buy the country, and his smile was grateful, but his eyes were cold and hard as he brushed his lips against the hand that she automatically gave. His son immediately followed, and insisted that she call him Cal._

_Cal was a man that she had heard so much about it was hard to separate fact from legend. He looked like a person that was pleasant enough. His black hair, blacker that night, was slicked back from a face with high cheekbones and large, snapping, dark eyes. He seemed genuinely pleased to be at her estate, and complimented her far more than he was required to. "My father did not give your beauty justice when he told me about you, Miss DeWitt-Bukater." He grinned an award-winning grin at her, and her mother beamed._

_Rose managed to give a ghost of a smile back as he continued to talk on, his voice confident and sure. Before long he was escorting her on a walk throughout the courtyard gardens, asking her anything he could think of about herself. Her initial sharp impression to hate him was gradually dulled. He was naïve, and a little bit arrogant, but not as horrible as she had imagined him to be. He seemed to be quite taken with her. Rose did not yet know that she was the naïve one for believing him to be sincere. Caledon Hockley was never sincere._

_Just that simply, Rose was drawn back into her world without even being aware of it. The fresh breeze of freedom had touched her face, and then it had gone. She felt it gently only once more that day, when Jim came with champagne glasses and served the small inner circle of herself, her mother, Cal, and his father. She was stopped midsentence by the look he gave her, a look full of enough sadness that she felt it even yards away. She remembered the glorious feeling of his arms, of being loved, even if for only a minute. She remembered how exhilarating it had been to step beyond the fence that surrounded her heart. Then, painfully, she saw that the sympathy that had once been in his gaze was replaced with disappointment and a cry to her that begged her to not go back to her chains._

_She didn't laugh again for the rest of her party. _

Jack and Rose stood outside of the whitewashed church in the icy air, grasping each other's hands. They were invisible to passerby, hidden in early morning shadows.  
"This is it," Jack whispered, and strangely he was extremely calm. It was the old Jack, the Jack he hadn't seen in so many months, that was in his body right now. He felt carefree, light, unshackled from all the worries that had kept him tied on the ground since last spring. He was once again the free bohemian artist who didn't give a damn about what people thought of him, and that was something he had missed for what felt like years.

"You said that yesterday, and the day before," Rose replied, and he was surprised to find that she herself seemed uneasy. Her hand kept tightening around his until her knuckles had turned white. Her eyes were large with fear and anticipation. She shook, but he suspected it was from more than the cold. He wished that he could comfort her somehow. He loved her, loved her so much it almost killed him, loved her with every fiber of his being. He wanted that to be enough. He wanted her to be able to lean against that love, and not need anything else, because it was strong enough to support her. He did not want her to starve for acceptance, especially for him, because he understood that that was what she was doing – she wanted desperately to be approved of by the people who had once played such a monumental part in his world. He wanted to tell her that it didn't matter what they thought, because she was his world now, all of it, and no one on Earth could ever alter that. He wanted to, but he didn't.

Instead, he just held her in his arms. He hoped that would say what his words could not. He pulled her against him so that there was absolutely no space between them and buried her face in his coat. He kissed her hair, trying to do something to make her stop trembling. The entire world narrowed to just them for a moment, and he didn't care that he was in Chippewa Falls. He could have been on Mars, and he wouldn't have noticed.

Eventually, she stilled. Her grip on his collar became loose. He felt her whole body shudder as she took a deep breath, and finally, she lifted her head to meet his steely gaze. He saw memories drifting in her irises, memories that gave her a reason to fear rejection. It hurt him just as much as it was hurting her. "Rose," he murmured, so quietly that his voice couldn't have traveled much further than her ears, "Rose . . . Rose . . . it's gonna be fine. I promise you."

It made his heart swell when he saw the serenity that gradually worked its way into her expression after he'd promised. He didn't deserve to be trusted like that; he didn't deserve to have someone so beautiful and magnificent take his word without even a shadow of a doubt in her face. It scared him, in a way, because he was terrified he'd mislead her, but it warmed him even more. Not many men could say that their wives believed in them like Rose believed in him. He silently thanked God for her, and for her pure trust.

"I know," she whispered back. Her ghost of a smile turned into something more tangible. "Let's do this thing." She worked her way out of his embrace, and he reluctantly let her go. They walked together to the church entrance. People had been disappearing through those double doors for the past fifteen minutes, but now it seemed that most people were already inside. Jack grabbed the tarnished handle and yanked the door open, hurrying Rose inside so that the blustery wind would not manage to escape into the building. He followed her.

It still smelled the same, he decided. It was a musty smell, a smell that he had associated with old people when he was younger. The place was spotlessly clean anyway, except for a bit of dust in the high places that the volunteers couldn't reach. There were no magnificent halls or huge pipe organs. The windows weren't full of stained glass. Everything was very plain and homey, just like he remembered it. A slate board nailed onto the wall had the name of the pastor and the time of the service scratched onto it. The familiarity was comforting and irritating all at once. It scared him that he had been here a grand total a day and a half and he was already itching for something more.

Rose was looking at everything with eyes that could have possibly said she had just walked into a trove of Spanish gold. This was a treasure to her, something she could have never imagined as a child. This church seemed like it was used, like it wasn't just a showcase, although all of her past experience with churches had told her otherwise. She was thirsty for real, honest, down to Earth people, and this seemed like evidence that they existed. What would it have been like to grow up here, instead of in a mansion with marble hallways and white flowers? Would she have turned out differently? Would she live with less regrets? For a moment she allowed herself to remember Sundays when she had been young. There was her father, uncomfortable in his expensive, hand-tailored suit, shifting his bulk on the pew. Her mother would be sitting next to him, so still she could have been a doll, her eyes on the priest but not her mind. It had been such a lie, she knew. When they had gotten home after the services, the serious Sunday faces had come off and been replaced by the power struggle that had always went on between her parents.

"This is where my parents' funeral was done," Jack said in what he meant to be an offhanded way, turning to look at her. His face was expressionless, but she knew what hurt he must be feeling. He must have been remembering the caskets. He had told her about it, told her that their bodies had been so badly burned that he had not been allowed to see them. It wrenched her heart out of her body every time she thought of it, and here he was, right in the very same building for the first time in years.

"They're probably so glad you're home," she answered quietly. He couldn't disguise the raw emotion in his eyes quick enough. She saw the flash of conflict; she knew he must be fighting a desire to leave again. This place was like a chamber of phantoms for him. She could feel them, their cold fingers brushing along her neck, their torn garments whipping around near her ankles, their hollow, empty stares fixing themselves on her. Hope, however, made them seem sad instead of terrifying, the hope that things would someday be better, that things would eventually heal.

Jack swallowed, and she saw that he was not afraid. Whatever Jack Dawson was, he was not a coward. There wasn't a trace of fear in his expression. There was dread, yes, and a certain amount of heavy sadness, but she could see relief, too, and excitement: excitement for starting this new adventure and excitement that she was here with him. He was gambling again, although this time he had no money to bet on a poker game. He was now gambling with his emotions. He was putting all of himself on the line to these people, and she knew that he knew it could result in one of two extremes, but the threat of failure wasn't nearly enough to keep him from pressing onward. She loved that about him. He loved her, too. The look he gave her told her so, and it didn't need to be enforced with words. It said it in a way that words couldn't. Blue desire burned in his eyes, so beautiful that she had to smile. There was desire for the past, desire for the present, desire for the future, but most of all there was a desire for a new start. That was what they were getting. _Titanic_ could follow them here, but it was forced to be silent. There was not a reminder of the death of that night every time they turned a corner. There was a chance to bandage their wounds and pray for them to close. That was something they both desperately needed.

This knowledge caused him to be fearless again. She felt it more than she saw it. He was again the bold man she had fallen in love with, cheerful and blithe. She hadn't seen this side of him in so long that she was taken by shock all over again at the magnetism that it drew her with. She was like a helpless moth being brought to a flame, and that made her feel safe again.


	10. Complications

The service had already started, and that made it easy to slip unnoticed into the back of the congregation. The old man behind the pulpit was the same old man he had been five and a half years ago. He was looking ancient now, instead of just elderly, but his untamable white hair still stood up in shocks, weirdly framed his heavily lined face. He was as animated as he had ever been, waving his loose arms furiously and slamming his fist onto the surface of his podium whenever he wanted to make a point. His oddly green eyes burned brightly with a passion that few other people had ever known, his strange checkered shirt was still covered with a horribly clashing pinstripe suit jacket. He had a glass of water beside him, on a table to the left, and it was completely normal for him to pause while giving a particularly energetic burst of preaching to swig down a few gulps so he could keep talking. The Bible in front of him was his very own, just as it had always been, and it was so dog-eared that sometimes words had been torn off of the edges of the pages and he filled them in from memory, because he knew that Book like he knew the back of his hand.

"When we get to Heaven, we cannot justify ourselves!" He was thundering now, stomping his foot for emphasis. "We cannot say, 'I am better than my neighbor,' and expect to be allowed entrance! No! Only the blood of Jesus Christ is strong enough to break the chains which bind us to Hell!"

Jack remembered the hundreds of sermons he had heard just like these. The summer ones stuck especially heavily to his mind. He recalled his mother fanning herself with her husband's handkerchief, and the sweat that had run down his father's back. There wasn't very good ventilation in this old building, and the heat had sat thick as lead upon them without being stirred at all. The preacher, Pastor Levoux, had been shiny with perspiration even after he had shed his suit coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves.

Now, though, it was chilly. Most people were still bundled up in coats and scarves, and the very few and very brave people who had taken them off had goosebumps on their skin. The overcoat that Peter had given him was thick and charcoal grey. The inside layer had been patched many times. Jack thought he remembered Pete's father wearing it long ago, but he wasn't sure. In any case, it was clearly worn through but it was so old that it felt soft and comforting against these hard wooden pews.

He was surprised that he and Rose had managed to slip into the sanctuary unnoticed. They had been silent as they sat, and not even the seats had creaked, or maybe the pastor was just storming too loud for any other sound to be heard. Now, his mind was too full to meditate on Heaven. He prayed a silent prayer begging for God to forgive him for not being able to focus, and he thought that it was received well. He looked across the small sea of heads, curious to if he could recognize anyone, and yet not fully wanting to for fear that he wouldn't be able to keep himself silent for the next forty-five minutes until the sermon was complete.

A girl up front caught his eye. He tried to remember who she reminded him of. She had sandy brown hair; it was all twisted up in a knot even though wisps had fallen out and framed her face. Her expression was drawn in, as though she were incredibly tired. From his angle she could see the way her mouth drooped at the corners with weariness. She looked too thin just by the way her collarbone jutted outward. Everything about her seemed to cry that she was simply too exhausted to go on much longer, from her dull brown eyes to the way she loosely held a sleeping baby in her lap.

All of the sudden it hit him. This was Grace, the young girl who had once been May's best friend, who wasn't even his own age of twenty-one. Another painful wave of shock hit him when he saw the little boy that was sitting next to her in ragged clothes and leaning his head against her shoulder. He had to be about five. It wasn't possible that she already had two children, was it? He looked desperately about her for any sign of a husband, but there was none. No one seemed to want to even go near her. The young ones looked very well taken care of, they were so clean that they might as well have been scrubbed down like people did to automobiles, and they appeared well fed. Although Grace too seemed to have taken great pains to make herself as presentable as possible, she looked like she had aged a hundred years in the space of half a decade. The baby began to stir under its knitted blanket. It couldn't have been much older than Anna Jamie. It seemed to think for a moment, wondering if whatever distress it was in was enough to cause a disturbance for, and then apparently decided it was. A shrill cry came from its mouth as it began to kick restlessly against its entrapment.

Grace didn't roll her eyes and she didn't complain. She didn't even hesitate. In two seconds she had stood and helped the boy to his feet. She silently towed him and the baby out of the room, and the baby's yells stopped soon thereafter as she attended to whatever had been wrong.

He sat there in disbelief, not understanding what had happened but knowing that he wanted to. He remembered what a happy, carefree girl she had been, running barefoot through the grass and swimming in lakes even when May was too afraid to follow her. Now she had an infant on her hip and a little one following in her wake, and there was no man with her. Feeling acutely responsible for some reason, he leaned over to Rose and whispered in her ear, "C'mon, I need to talk to that girl. Grace. Her name is Grace." He wasn't about to leave her alone here, but he couldn't rightfully explain everything under the present circumstances. To her credit, she didn't protest and immediately walked in front of him through the doors to where Grace had disappeared. When they reached the entrance, she held a hand to stop him. "Stay here," she murmured, and then she disappeared behind the corner and into a coat closet.

He couldn't make out what was being said and waited impatiently. Curiosity was getting the better of him; he didn't think he could stand much more of this. His mind flew at a thousand miles an hour until he was so confused he could hardly think. He was probably making a big deal out of nothing, after all. Grace's husband was most likely just out of town for the morning or something. But the loneliness in her eyes . . . he remembered the emptiness, the hurt, and he knew otherwise. After a few moments, Rose reappeared. "She was nursing," she whispered. "She's presentable now, though."

He felt a blush rising on his cheeks when he though of how he had almost stormed in on a woman breastfeeding a baby. He needed to calm down and get control of himself or else he was going to end up doing something equally and incredibly stupid. He hadn't seen Grace in years; he hardly knew anything about her. He refused to let himself jump to conclusions.

Rose's gentle hand rested on his shoulder. He looked over at her briefly, just long enough to see the encouragement in her smile. That was enough for him. All of his doubts and worries suddenly didn't seem so huge anymore. He felt like he could conquer them if he needed to. He walked across the planked floor, his boots making hollow thudding sounds that reminded him vaguely of a beating heart.

"Jack!" It was a forced whisper that he heard, almost like it came from someone who was being stepped on. He raised his eyes to meet the face of the woman whom it had come from. From the smoky, unreachable past, beneath years and years of life, he saw a person. She looked like a hauntingly forgotten doll, like someone who had once soaked in the warm rays of beauty and love like one would soak in a bath, but who had been given up like a child gives up a toy for a newer, brighter model. Her pain had sewn years onto her that were beyond her age, making her look like a shadow of the bubbly girl he remembered. Something mysterious and dark lingered in the deep brown of her eyes, even as golden flecks of amazement burst across her irises. She seemed to have stopped breathing, and he was suddenly aware that so had he.

"Grace," he whispered, even as he heard Rose shut the coat closet door behind him. Half of him was praying that he was wrong, that he had the wrong girl, that God had not dealt someone he had known – even if not well – a piece of life that was so hard.

He was suddenly transported back to Paris. In his mind's eye he again saw the woman he remembered, huddling under the projection of a roof. She had been trying to shield her three children from the rain as it cascaded in a river down the road and soaked her thin dress. He had been standing on a nearby door stoop while he waited for Fabrizio to come back from scrounging for food. For perhaps the first time in his life, he had had no urge whatsoever to draw raw emotions like the ones he saw on that woman's face. They were too hopeless, too devoid of anything that resembled dreams or life. She had been crying, he remembered now. He had watched each tear mix with the rain, until he was unable to distinguish them from the mud in the streets. Her oldest, a boy, had looked like he wanted to cry too, but the fierceness in his face forbade it. He had gathered his two siblings to him and held his mother while she wept. To the random passerby, it might seem as though he was trying to protect them from the storm, but Jack knew otherwise. Jack knew he was trying to protect them from the world.

Grace reminded him of that boy. The strength that was in her face was betrayed horribly by the desperation in her eyes. She looked hungry, and not for food, but for life. Her son had fallen asleep next to her on the bench on which she sat, and the baby seemed about to drift off as well. Only with her children not looking did she allow that hurt to show on her features, even though she was now working frantically to hide it from him.

"You're here . . . does May know you're here?" She hastily wrapped the tiny infant tighter in the knit blanket and set it gently on a bundled up wad that had to be her own coat. She stood up, shakily, so that she could hug him. She didn't wait for him to answer. He pulled her carefully to him as she buried her face in his shirt, and he felt her leaning against him more than she had to. A deeper gash of worry cut into his heart.

"Yeah," he muttered over her head, "She knows." She smelled like something soft, maybe bread. He felt how coarse the material of her dress was. He could even feel her spine through the fabric. "How are you, Grace?"

She didn't remove herself from his arms, and he could tell that she wasn't being flirtatious or even overly friendly. She was exhausted. She could hardly stand. And all of the sudden he knew that he absolutely had to help her.   
"I'm . . . I'm alright," she replied, finally looking up at his face. She reached a hand out to touch his cheek. "I can't believe you're back. Where did you go?" She didn't seem to believe that he was really there. That scared him even more. He soothingly helped her sit down again, not feeling like he should get into deep conversations right here.

"I've been around. This is my wife, Rose," he answered. Rose didn't hang onto him like she usually did. She was suddenly independent and strong. He could tell that she, too, sensed the vulnerability of the woman before her. He let out a sigh of relief as a weight was lifted from his shoulders – he knew that he would not have to face Grace and her hurt alone. He knew that he didn't have to face anything alone. He could have cried, that realization felt so good.

Grace didn't seem to be able to speak for a moment. She simply sat there, her eyes bleary as they rested upon this fiery-haired apparition. She pressed her lips together as Rose smiled.  
"I met you just a minute ago, remember Grace? Right before Jack came in?" Rose's voice was so tender and so soft that it in itself was like a balm to all of the hurt that was in the room. The look on Grace's face said that she had felt it. She suddenly seemed more relaxed, and the flicker of confusion that had sprang into her irises slowly died.  
"Oh, yes . . . I didn't know . . . Pleased to meet you . . ." Grace extended a hand to shake Rose's, and even as Grace smiled, she was carefully looking over the woman in front of her. The Jack that she remembered would have died before he got tied down to any woman, except perhaps May. The fact that he had taken a foreign bride – because to Grace, anything outside of Chippewa Falls was foreign – only attested to how much he had been changed. She tore her stare from this Rose back to Jack, and she tried to see what had changed in him. He was taller, he was stronger, but there was something else. Something terribly, terribly sad lived in his eyes, those beautiful blue eyes that she had forever coveted. He looked young still, he looked happy to be alive, but something in those eyes betrayed him. It spoke to her, spoke of wisdom and sights that no man Jack's age should have ever been forced to see yet. There was joy there, too, but it was so surely entangled with the pain that she couldn't separate them. Was it possible for pain to be joy and for joy to be pain? She had never thought about this before.  
Rose shook her hand, and Grace noticed how soft those hands were. Even in the cold winter air, her hands were not cracked and callused like every other woman's were in this place. They were smooth and unblemished; her nails were rounded and clean, almost as if she had never known any work in her life. Maybe she was just that careful or that graceful, but even the way she stood held certain elegance. It was not acquired elegance, but something deeper – it was elegance by birthright, almost as if the world had been obliged to give her such grace, almost as if because she had been born she deserved such beauty, for she certainly was beautiful. The symmetry of her face, the richness of her lips, the color of her eyes . . . she was absolutely magnificent. How and why she had ended up with the tumbleweed known as Jack Dawson was lost on Grace. There was no snobbery about her, it was as if the entire Earth and all its people knew that she was entitled to such gloriousness and didn't dare to question it, or even want to question it, because it was true.

Grace knew how she looked. She had once been beautiful, too; perhaps not as stunning but very pleasant too look at. She was too thin now, too tired, too worn out by what life had dealt her. She remembered how her own eyes had once sparkled, their amber color radiating all the time, but that color had been dulled and dampened. She was strong only and always because of her children, but now that they were asleep, she was just too tired to pretend anymore. She held two jobs and raised two kids without any help at all. She was coming down with something, too, maybe a cold. The landlord that lived in Eau Claire had threatened to evict her because she hadn't turned in her rent on time for the last five months. Life had been very hard on her, indeed.

Rose sat down next to Grace, making sure her green dress didn't brush against the baby and wake her. She had never heard of Grace before. She didn't know why she had never been told so many, many things . . . and she meant to ask Jack about it, most certainly, but not now. She bit back a hot tongue of anger and kept her gentle smile on her face as she turned to the woman next to her. She needed to get them all out of this coat closet, she knew, because it was apparent that this whole little family was in some sort of trouble and she wasn't going to sit by and let them wither. People had simply watched Rose die once, long ago, and she had learned enough to never let that happen to another human being.  
"Jack and I haven't eaten yet. Would you allow us to treat you and your children to lunch? It really would be our pleasure." She was so entirely sincere that it almost broke Jack's heart. He knew by the one look she had spared him that he had hell to pay later, but he didn't really mind, because he also knew he deserved it. He actually didn't know why he had never shared his whole past with her; it just hadn't seemed worthy to bring up, or maybe it had just been too painful. But what he realized now was that she was his wife and she needed to know him.  
"Yeah, Grace, c'mon, let's get outta here," he pleaded. "We'll go down by Kris' place and eat over there, at the diner. It'll still open on Sundays, remember?" He grinned at her and he saw her giving in even against her will to take any form of charity whatsoever. Then she looked at her little boy, sound asleep in his worn clothes, and she nodded. Jack understood that she was dismantling herself from her pride for her children.  
"What's his name?" Jack asked, as he squatted down next to the kid. His face looked familiar, but Jack couldn't quite place it. His nose . . . his hair . . .

"Tristan," Grace answered quietly. "And this is Lana." She picked up the infant girl and held her against her chest.

"May I?" Rose's voice was tremulous as she reached her hands out to the baby. Grace didn't know what was passing through her mind, but the desperation in her eyes was enough for her to nod. Wonderingly, she passed Lana to this stranger that she for some reason trusted so completely. She watched, confused, as tears brimmed on Rose's eyelids and then seeped over to slide soundlessly down her cheeks.

Jack was standing nearby, watching her with an expression of anxiety, seeming ready to spring to her defense at any moment. Grace had no idea why. Rose slowly rocked Lana back and forth, one of her fingers touching the soft baby skin as gently as a breeze might. There was something dead in her past that was suddenly resurrected, and even as much as it had to hurt, Rose smiled beautifully behind her tears. "She's gorgeous," she whispered, looking up at the little one's mother. "She's absolutely perfect, truly."

"Thank you," Grace answered, and for the first time in a long time a real ray of hope burst into her soul.

The diner was warm and smelled like freshly made coffee. One lone man stood chewing on a pipe in the corner, for the entire place was empty. He would go to the church service in the evening. He didn't know why Owen insisted that they keep the restaurant open on Sunday mornings, because no one ever came. Oh sure, a couple of times a lost and wayward traveler had stumbled through the big oak door to find solace in a hot plate of scrambled eggs and sausage or a steaming mug of tea, but that happened so rarely that the man figured he could count the number of times on one hand. Owen was the boss, though, and the man was grateful for the job and the money it provided that he could bring home to his pregnant wife. She was in her fifth month now, and before he knew it he'd be holding a little baby in his arms. The thought both scared and excited him. Even though he knew he shouldn't on the Sabbath, he grabbed the beer next to him and gulped half the bottle down in seconds.  
He glanced out the window into the snow covered world of Chippewa Falls. He had moved here four years ago, and by now he had learned there was no such thing as mild winter. His parents lived nearby – just a couple of miles south – and they had begged him to bring his new wife and settle close to them so that they could be a part of his life. The thought made him laugh and he ran a hand through his tangled mass of sandy hair. His mother was going to drive him crazy any day now, and his father was getting so grouchy as he got older that sometimes the man thought he preferred the company of his parents' dog, Lucy.  
All of the sudden he slammed the beer down. "I'll be damned," he whispered to himself. Three people – two women and a man – were heading towards the diner. The man held a little boy in his arms and one of the women, one with pale skin and brown hair that threatened to tumble out of the pins that were keeping it up, cradled an infant to her chest. He recognized her as the single mother who lived in the only apartment complex in the whole town. What was her name . . . something like Mercy? Grace? It was awfully early for her to be out of church. He checked his pocket watch quickly. It was hardly eleven o'clock.   
The door swung open and with it came the icy fingers of a cold wind that bit at his hands and cheeks. The man, even though the boy had to be heavy, ushered the two ladies inside before shutting the door behind him. He laid the child gently down on a cushioned seat even as the little guy stirred and slowly awoke. Then he helped the first woman sit down and become situated with her baby before turning to the second and helping her out of her coat.  
He chewed on his pipe some more in thought. He hadn't seen the second woman at first, and she was like no female he had ever seen. Yes, he was married, and yes, and he thought that his wife was the most beautiful creature on Earth, but this girl ran a close second. The first thing he noticed about her was what he assumed was the first thing everyone noticed about her – her hair. It was perhaps the most magnificent hair he had ever seen, the color of hot coals or maybe maples in autumn, up in a perfect upsweep and yet wild ringlets still curling down to her neck, looking so soft and silky he wanted to touch it.  
He took his time getting over to them, trying to suppress this urge to reach out his work-callused hand and feel the strands of blood fire in front of him. He wondered who she was. He had never seen her before. Maybe she was some kind of model, or a phantom.   
"How can I help you?"  
Jack turned when he heard a person next to him speak. He briefly assessed the man, studying him carefully with his piercing blue eyes. He didn't recognize him. Was it possible that Chippewa Falls had actually gotten some new blood since he had left? The sandy blonde hair and crooked nose looked familiar, but he couldn't quite remember why. He had a stocky build, and his belt looked a little tight. His eyebrows were furrowed with curiosity and they made him look sinister, but his face was warm and friendly. For the first time in a half an hour, Jack let himself relax. "Uh . . . what's on the menu today?"  
Rose tried to glance at Grace but be discreet at the same time. She had never had much experience in truly helping people; giving out charity, except for appearance reasons, had generally been ignored in her home. Yet some kind of instinct was kicking up inside her, the instinct that she was sure her husband had as well, an instinct that could only be called compassion. Her heart cracked in so many places for this woman and her children that she could feel it breaking. She was half relieved that, although her parents hadn't been able to, she could still feel. The other part of her was terribly sad for the life God had given Grace.  
"Yeah, I'll have just a ham sandwich and some potatoes," Jack said, selecting the cheapest thing that the man had listed. The idea of hot, creamy potatoes was appetizing to him anyway.   
And all of the sudden the memories started to hit him. He couldn't have stopped them if he tried, he hadn't even seen them coming. He swallowed as they threatened to overwhelm him, and suddenly he wasn't in Wisconsin anymore. He wasn't even in America. He was on the ocean.

_Jack, being a seasoned traveler, didn't expect to be impressed by the third class dining room on _Titanic_. By the ship itself, he had been absolutely amazed – mostly by the sheer size and sparkling newness of everything. Yet Jack was not naïve, and he knew that no matter how much advertising there had been about the Grandest Ship in the World, the steerage mess hall would still be on the bottom of the priority list. Yes, he had been pleased with his cabins. But the place for the poor folk to eat? It would be just like all the others: dirty, long rows of wooden planked tables, a counter that you had to line up in front of to get your food, and a floor covered in sawdust to muffle the horrible stenches that came from the kitchen. The meal would be small, and you were considered lucky if you could tell what you were eating. He usually lost a lot of muscle and about fifteen pounds on voyages like this.  
Well, he had been wrong.  
As he sat in a warm, roomy chair with blue upholstery, he was still dumbfounded. The room was so white that he thought maybe Heaven looked like this, so bright and airy. Decorative posters of other ships were carefully mounted along the walls, and green plants overflowed from tastefully simple pots. He drummed his fingers nervously on the white linen tablecloth, uncomfortable with the upper crust style he was so unaccustomed to. A line of waiters trouped out of a swinging door that must have led to the kitchen, carrying all kinds of steaming food. A bowl of mashed potatoes was set down in front of Jack, along with sausages and soft bread. He didn't move.  
Fabrizio, however, wasn't so shy. In one sweeping motion he had emptied two sausages and a mountain of potatoes onto his porcelain plate. He gnawed on a piece of bread that was being held in his free hand. The grin on his face probably was enough to stretch across a couple of continents. They hadn't eaten very well in the last few weeks. Their most recent meal had been week old vegetables discarded from a restaurant in Southampton, since they had pitched the rest of their money on cigarettes.   
He managed to grab a roll that was in a wicker basket near him. He tossed it back and forth between his hands. It wasn't the hardtack he was used to from tramp steamers; it was light and fluffy feeling. Of course, there weren't elegant tables or crystal goblets or caviar or lamb, but the bread itself seemed miraculous. He was very hungry. After examining it for a few more seconds, he finally ate for the first time in twenty-four hours. _

_The breeze lifted the hair off of the back of Jack's neck as he stood on the stern, leaning against the rail. Night had fallen over the Atlantic. He twirled an unlit cigarette aimlessly between his fingers, rubbing it against his palms. The water was as black as the sky, almost like charcoal. The _Titanic_ steamed through the air that was thick with blackness, penetrating it with its thousands of lights. His eyes caught the stars the glimmered above him. He had never seen so many stars in his entire life. They were too beautiful to be from Earth, he decided, and that was when he knew, forever and eternally, there was a God. He picked out the constellations that Fabrizio had taught him, ones that Fabri's father had pointed out to him when he was a young boy. They shone and sparkled, winking at him from their celestial place in the heavens, painting beautiful pictures that were as ancient as Time itself.  
Fabri was standing next to him. His deep brown eyes reflected the voidness of the world around him. He hadn't spoken for a long time. Jack glanced over at him, silently wondering what he was thinking. He remembered Fabrizio's mother, and how, right before he had left, Fabri had promised her he would be back within two years. Those two years were about to run out, and he wasn't coming home. Fabrizio de Rossi was a man who would rather die than break his word. It had to be killing him. America was the one thing he had aimed at his whole life, and he had wanted to get there more than anything else. But he had left a mother and a sister behind who were forced to provide for themselves. Even though they had insisted that he go, he had to feel guilty about it. _

_Just as though he could read Jack's thoughts, Fabrizio started to talk, his eyes still staring emptily over the ocean. "Mama needed me," he muttered. "She needs me still." He took a deep breath of the cold air around him, and Jack had the impression that he was trying viciously to bite back tears. The smell of beer was on him. Even though Jack, too, had drunk alcohol, he knew his friend had drunk more. He knew his friend was trying to drown out his shame. He looked away for a minute. It was his fault, his entire damned fault, that he had taken Fabri from Europe. As long as there was not the Atlantic separating them, he had known that Fabri would go back to his family farm someday. Not anymore. It wasn't going to happen now. And he had been the one who had made them enter the poker game for the tickets, who had stupidly gotten on the ship without thinking, who was towing an Italian away from the world he knew. It had been bad enough that he had been so much of a coward that he had ran away from his dead parents. It was anguish that he had taken a man away from his alive mother.  
"And I just a' can't go to her anymore," Fabri continued, his voice rising as his emotions did, almost to a note of hysteria that Jack had never heard from him before. Jack buried his face in his hands, all of his energy gone, feeling like an old man. "I a' can't. I let her down. I was man of the house, and I left." He swore violently in Italian, his entire face as white as a sheet. Jack had always known his friend was innocent, maybe even a little naïve, but the consequences of this action Fabri could never have dreamed. "She will die old and alone, after my sister gets a' married!" But then his entire body stooped as he thought of a more horrible outcome. "Or maybe . . . my sister won't get a' married. Maybe she will spend her whole life caring for a woman whose son should have been there!"_

_Half of Jack wanted to embrace the poor, broken man, but he wouldn't do that. He was a man, and men didn't hug. Men didn't cry. Men didn't show any weakness at all, because if he did, surely that would be the death of him. He bit his lip and remained silent.  
"I will never get the money to bring Mama to America!" The tears in Fabrizio's throat made his accent thicker, to the point where he was hardly understandable. "Even if I do, she no come. She loves _Italia,_ and so did I! So did I!"  
Jack prayed furiously that it was only the booze talking, only the harmless deep brown beer, and not Fabri at all. He prayed that Fabri would forgive himself, forgive him, forgive the world and forgive his dream for betraying him. He sank against the railing, feeling the cold metal press against his forearms where his plaid jacket was bunched up. There was nothing he could say to ease the pain, so he didn't talk at all. He took a match out of his pocket and lit up the cigarette, puffing steadily on it, watching the silvery clouds of smoke turn and twist into the empty space above him, trying to touch the stars.  
He heard Fabri's boot scuffing up the deck next to him and saw his knuckles clutch the rail so hard they turned white. He began to pray again, more fervently this time, almost more than he had in his entire life. He hated to see his best friend in agony like this; it was worse than him being in such pain himself. He swallowed.  
"But I still go," Fabrizio whispered, his voice so low that it was like the delicate doves in Paris. He looked over at Jack, and the tears that had reflected in his eyes vanished to leave them deep and dark. "I still decide to go. Is that a sin?" The questioning in his face was so honest that it twisted Jack's heart. _

_Jack continued to watch the glowing embers on the end of his cigarette as they sparkled. A few ashes dropped from the tip and fell into the churning black water. He knew he needed to say something, but he had no idea what to say. Nothing he thought of seemed any good. He was usually the type to carefully choose his words, but right now, he sensed that some logical answer wasn't what Fabrizio needed. He opened his mouth and closed it a few times before finally talking.  
"I don't know," he muttered, giving up on his attempted smoke and throwing the whole damn thing as far into the ocean as it would go. He saw the orange was extinguished by the wind before it disappeared into the darkness that surrounded him. "I don't know." He felt so tired.  
Fabri seemed to consider this. He swept his hat off of his head and twisted it between his rough hands. His dark hair blew off his forehead, the same color as the night. Jack didn't know what was running through his mind. He didn't want to know. For some reason, it seemed like a moment to let private thoughts stay private. He walked a few steps away, aimlessly wandering across the deck, stepping over thick mooring ropes and vents. Because he was on the back of the ship, he could look behind them into the deep void that was the Atlantic. It was as if the _Titanic_ and its passengers were the only signs of civilization left on the planet._

_He felt blessed silence wrapping itself around him, punctuated only by the steady hum of the engines and the whispering sound of water being peeled back as the ship cut through it. Even thoughts couldn't break this thick blanket of quiet. He forced himself to not think, to not feel, even if just for a moment. There was nothing but him and the blackness and the stars. Maybe Time had never existed in the first place.  
It didn't last very long. He heard Fabrizio coming up behind him, breaking into his little world, but he didn't mind. Two years ago, he had said without really saying that his world was now Fabri's, too. They just stood there in compatible quiet for a moment, listening to the ocean and the sky talk to one another.   
Finally, whispering so low that it sounded like summer rain, Jack muttered, "I'm sorry." It was all he had to offer, this meager apology. If he could have given his best friend the world in offering, he would have, but the world was not his to give. He stood there, his head bowed but his shoulders square as only a man's could be, waiting to find out if his humble admission would be accepted and at the same time knowing that the kind Italian next to him would be able to do nothing else. Fabrizio didn't say anything for a minute. He fumbled in the pocket of his old faded black coat and brought out a smoke much like the one Jack had just tossed. He held out his hand, and wordlessly Jack gave him a match. After the end had been lit, he shook it furiously to stifle the flame and then threw it into the water. He took a deep drag, the heavy aroma of the first puff on the cigarette making him cough. The next inhale was better since the scent was diluted and he didn't even blink as he blew out a cloud of smoke that mixed with the steam of their breath.  
"Did you a' see that girl? That girl I talking to after dinner?"   
Jack looked over at him with eyes that stung from the smoke, and his knees went weak with relief. Fabri had just completely forgiven him without having to say a word. He swallowed, not able to put his emotions into words. Instead he too pretended that their earlier conversation had never happened.  
"Yeah, she was a looker," he said, swatting his hair out of his face again. He turned his eyes back to the heavens for half a second before looking down again.  
"Her name Helga," Fabrizio went on, and for the first time in the past half an hour, he smiled. "She's _bella_. But I . . . I . . . I no good for her. I can't be loving a woman like that. She's too good for me."_

_Jack looked over at his friend, and saw the compassion in his eyes. He had been wrong. He wouldn't give Fabri the world – the world wasn't enough for someone who had a heart like that, who had the capability to be a friend like that. He laughed. "There is no one too good for you, Fabrizio de Rossi."_

Rose didn't even know what she was saying to Grace at the moment . . . something about New York? It was dangerous to not have control over her own mind, but that was how it was at the second. For all she was thinking about the conversation, she might as well have told the woman that she was an ex-convict and she had met Jack on a chain gang.   
The reason Rose was so unfocused was Jack. He was always the reason, it seemed, but now she was getting angry with him. It was an emotion she had only experienced a few times before in her life, and she still didn't know how to handle it. His spirit was so closely entwined with hers that she didn't know how to be mad at him without being mad at herself, but his actions left her no choice. He hadn't even spoken a word for the last ten minutes, leaving her to try to host a woman that she didn't even know. It was obvious that Grace didn't mind speaking with her, but her eyes kept flitting over to Jack every few moments and Rose knew that she had something serious on her mind. Would it kill Jack to listen for two seconds? To seem even somewhat engaged in the moment? He was being the most unsocial she had ever seen him, and to a friend that he hadn't seen in years, for God's sake! She felt completely out of place and it was all his fault.  
Hostilely, she spared him a glare when Grace was preoccupied Lana for a second, but he didn't even look at her. The fogginess in his eyes told her he was thinking deeply about something, but what that something was she didn't know. She couldn't read him as easily as he read her; she wasn't the artist. This was not a good moment for him to do what he was doing. She wanted to be an immature child and kick him under the table, but she didn't. Instead, she ignored him completely, like he wasn't even there, because he certainly didn't seem to be. Eventually she felt him shift, but she was busy asking Grace about the best time to go to the markets in Chippewa Falls and she didn't even give him a second of her time. He must have understood that he was getting the cold shoulder by now.

"What have you been doing the last six years?" Jack asked. That had been the wrong thing to talk about; he knew that now, both from Rose's horrified stare and from the way the smile left Grace's face. How could he have been so stupid? It was obvious that whatever she had been doing was not lunchtime conversation. Tristan was playing with the buttons on his shirt.  
Moderate relief was given by the man who worked there, since he came over with their food at that second. Everyone had ordered sandwiches all around, except for little Lana, of course. The baby slept on in her mother's lap, while the little boy nearly jumped off his seat with excitement at the chocolate milkshake that the man had given him – for free, nonetheless. The Dawsons didn't have a wallet exactly overflowing with cash. Maybe the man had sensed that. Jack smiled at him gratefully.  
The distraction had caused him to forget that he had ever asked an awkward question, so he almost choked on his sandwich when Grace finally answered, albeit indirectly. "You've seen Peter, then," she murmured. It was not a question, but a statement. She brushed back a few loose strands of brown hair behind her ears. Jack remained confused, but he had not failed to notice how Rose's eyes lit with understanding. Feeling like an idiot, he nodded.  
"I haven't seen him since . . . well . . . almost a year ago . . ."

Alright, now Jack knew something was wrong. Tears were gathering on Grace's eyelashes, making her eyes shimmer and sparkle like glass. He put down his fork. She pressed her lips together, and he wanted very much to know what she was thinking. When he looked at her, he saw someone who had been betrayed by trust, and it must have stung her deeply.  
"Tristan, honey, you didn't wash your hands. Go into the bathroom and wash your hands," Grace said, her voice suddenly bright as she fought to keep herself from crying. Her son, who sweetly obliged without a word of protest, plopped down onto the floor and padded away. Once he was out of earshot, she turned and stared at the table. "Why, Jack, why did you leave when you did?" She whispered, and regardless of her struggle a tear managed to find its way to her cheek. It fell and splattered on the worn table top.   
Jack balled his hands into fists. He had no idea what this woman was talking about, and yet the absolute pleading and regret in her voice made a needle sharp pain dig into his soul. He turned his stony gaze from her to the snow outside, which was swirling like thick cotton blown about by the wind. A tabby cat wandered aimlessly over the frozen ground, looking like it was an inch from death. Even from this distance he could see the bones under its fur. It slid underneath a porch.  
"I don't know," he muttered, his expression empty. He wasn't hungry anymore. Rose, who always was there for him when he needed her, set her frustration aside and laid a soft hand on his upper arm, and he felt the hardness of his insides beginning to melt. He wanted to thank her, but he couldn't talk. Something was putting so much weight on the back of his throat that he was incapable of making a sound. He sat up straighter, prouder, stronger, because he knew that the something was tears, and he would not give into them. He felt Rose's fingers running up and down his shirtsleeve, calming him, trying to convey to him that he needed to hold onto whatever shred of sanity he still had. He didn't understand the pain in Grace's eyes, nor the accusation. There was no doubt that she was unwillingly blaming him for something. Fire burned in her irises, hot and dancing and furious, but mixed with that fire were the tears of the terribly sad, hesitant and empty.

As Grace studied Jack, trying to decide if he was worthy of the information she was thinking about giving him, she realized that she already knew the answer. This was the boy who had been the young love of her best friend, with whom she had spent hours talking to and laughing with. She had never known him as well as May had, but she had felt connected with him. Maybe everyone who met Jack Dawson felt connected with him. Either way, she adored him with the naïve adoration of a friend, and she couldn't stay angry with him. All of the fault she had held with his memory for the last few years faded away. The volatile, carefree light that had always surrounded him and made him so appealing still did surround him, making him seem innocent in a way she knew he wasn't. Regardless, it was enough to make her open her mouth and speak the words she had never spoken to another human being because of the shame, because of the failure.  
"After you left . . . Peter didn't want me anymore." Her voice was so timid that she wondered if he had heard, but in the end she knew he had because of the shock that sizzled in the currents of air between them. She studied her sandwich with newfound interest as he remained silent, not even breathing. Before he could say anything, Tristan promptly bounded back to the table, talking loudly about how wonderful chocolate milkshakes were.

Jack nodded an uneasy goodbye to Grace Malone, watching as she made her way around a corner to the poorer side of town with shanties, where he assumed she lived. The last thing he saw was the tattered end of her coat as the wind whipped it around the post office, and then she was gone, Tristan following happily in her wake and Lana gurgling in her arms. He bit his lip so hard that a scar reopened and he tasted blood. The coppery essence of it made him want to gag and was it the same time a wonderful distraction for his brain, which had been working on double time for the last half an hour. He hadn't been very good company, and he hadn't said a word to Grace since she had last spoken except to accept her sincere thanks and to tell her he'd be seeing her soon. His thoughts throbbed.

If he had understood her correctly, and he was quite sure he had because his mind was incapable of fabricating such a statement, she had implied to him that Peter, Pete Filner, was the father of her children. Although the idea bounced against his skull, he refused to dissect it because the consequences were just too severe and he couldn't absorb them. He wanted to believe Grace was crazy. She certainly didn't appear to be in a healthy state. He shot down that hypothesis immediately, because no matter how her physical health was her mental health seemed to be just fine. Okay, then, maybe she just wanted someone to accuse for how life had treated her. Maybe she wanted to lash out at whoever was near her by hurting them with someone whom they loved, and she knew that when they had all been children Jack had loved Pete like a brother. That was it. She was just a bitter woman with a hard heart who needed to spit venom back at the cold world that first hated her.

But then he remembered the sadness in her face, the tenderness in her voice when she had spoke to her son and daughter, and the dignity she maintained throughout the whole encounter. He remembered how kind she had been to Rose, and how her eyes had lit up when he had walked into the coat closet. He kneaded his forehead with his hands, ignoring the biting cold. There were only two options – either she had been lying or she had been telling the truth – and he was going to figure it out right now.  
As if reading his thoughts, he felt icy but gentle fingertips on his chest. "Don't do anything absurd," Rose whispered, and she moved her thumb to wipe the blood off of his lip. He pressed her palm against his cheek and closed his eyes, trying to soak in her softness.

"I won't," he muttered, pulling her close to him for the briefest second. Church was out by now, and he looked up the street to the Filner's place. An oil lamp was burning in one of the windows. "Do you know your way back home?"

She nodded, completely unafraid, completely understanding what he had to do. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him, right there on the doorstep of the restaurant, throwing her arms around him. It was a sweet kiss, one like the kisses they show in the nickelodeons, beautiful and pure like rain. Then she was gone.

He stood there for a long time in the bitter wind, letting it rake through his hair and burn his skin. He tried to decide what he was going to say but he couldn't. A good while later, he turned heavily toward the old house up the road and trudged through the snow to get to it.

May was just changing into her everyday clothes when she heard the downstairs door open. She didn't recall hearing anyone knock, and immediately her blood chilled. Her brother had borrowed a neighbor's mule to go to the lumberyard and buy more firewood, and she was alone. In Chippewa Falls, one didn't usually lock the front door, but then again intruders didn't usually barge in uninvited. Clad only in a slip, she managed to tiptoe barefoot to the landing with a candlestick holder from her bedroom in her hand. The soft carpet masked her footsteps, but just as she reached the edge of the stairs a floorboard underneath her creaked and, because she hadn't been expecting it, she let out a gasp of surprise. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she heard the door shut softly again and boots stomp across the floor, quickly, as if they were in a hurry. Terrified, she did the only thing one could do in a situation. "Who is it?" She asked, her voice wavering pathetically with fear.

There was no answer.

Now she began to inch down the staircase, one fragile step at a time, raising the candlestick holder back over her head. She was cold and gooseflesh broke out across her body. Her hair was loose and hung around her shoulders, and the idea of a rapist being in her house made her freeze with horror. "Who's there?" She called out again, looking in the direction of the back door and trying to gauge how long it would take her to bolt for it.  
"Where's Pete?" The voice came suddenly, from nowhere, and loudly, from everywhere. She recognized it immediately and she wished instantly that it was indeed a rapist instead of Jack Dawson, who stood five feet to her left at the bottom of the stairs, and who was staring at her face without blinking. She dropped the candlestick holder with a crash, and it rolled down each step to his feet. She crossed her arms over the thin fabric that covered her chest.   
"Why didn't you knock?" She asked harshly, tears coming to her eyes. She was so embarrassed she was afraid she was going to die. Each time her heart beat it hurt her ribcage and she felt like she was suffocating. She considered turning her back on him to run upstairs, but she couldn't move. She saw his gaze and the way that he never looked down to rove her but only stayed respectfully on her eyes. Although half of her was thankful, the other half of her was offended and wished that he would look so she'd know he wanted to look, so she'd know he was still attracted to her.

It was he who moved first. He shrugged out of the old patched overcoat that her brother had loaned him, the one that had been her father's, and he walked up to her and wrapped it around her shoulders. She nearly died when his fingertips touched her shoulder. The gentleness in his eyes was not what she wanted, but the blistering heat that lingered there when he looked at his wife. When she didn't do anything, he took it upon himself to button it up so as to cover her completely down to her shins. Then he stepped away, and muttered an apology for not knocking before he asked again about the whereabouts of Peter.  
"He . . . he went to get firewood . . .," she stuttered, at a loss for her voice. If they had been alone in a house when they where teenagers, and if he had found her looking like this, then most certainly something would have happened. The fact that she still wanted it to and he didn't attested to how much he had changed. She gestured meekly to the empty grate beside the fireplace, and to the dying flames. In seconds he had messed around with the smoldering logs enough to start up a roaring blaze.  
"I'll wait for him," Jack said in the quiet way he had, and sank in the nearest armchair. She watched him, transfixed by his ethereal quality, half drunk with the sudden realization that the coat that was touching her bare skin had been touching his moments before. After that, all thought burned away and she just stood there, barefoot and dumbfounded and freezing, but not comprehending any of it. Like a brainwashed zombie, she had been drawn into his aura of carefree attractiveness; she had been yanked into his magnetic personality. She was like a suicidal fish that had jumped onto shore and now lay dying on the burning sand, but didn't know enough to get back in the water. It could be said that she nearly worshipped him, and he still remained oblivious. The fact that he couldn't see her adoration made her feel as if something cold and hard and heavy was squashing her, laughing at her, killing her. The sun was getting blotted from her life, the end had to be near, she couldn't even breathe! The desperation to love him and for him to love her was murdering her in cold blood and there was no escaping it! She wanted to get sick, and she thought that if she could move she most certainly would, but she couldn't. All she could do was silently scream and weep and mourn for a love that had been hers but no longer was, and it was driving her to the brink of madness!

"Why . . . why did you leave me?" She croaked, unable to stop herself from asking and unable to stop the hot tears of hurt from rolling down her cheeks. It had all built up for so long, all of this anger and pain that he had caused, and she had held it back for years. But now the dam of her anguish had broken and the torture was just too much for her to bear. Her entire body shook as she cried. "Why? Why did you go when I needed you? Why didn't you take me with you? I waited for you for so long! Why did you do that to me, Jack, why!" She was furious now, her eyes hard and cold and empty as she stood there crying so hard she thought she was going to break into pieces, glaring at him like only those with a broken heart can glare.

He looked at her in shock, and for some reason this awoke even more of her irate, bubbling rage. He looked so innocent – how could he not know all the horror he had caused her? If he hadn't seen how much he was hurting her, that made him a despicable asshole, and she told him so on that cold winter Sunday.

He didn't get up and he didn't speak a word. His mouth was slightly parted in surprise and she had had enough. She slapped him full across the face, not understanding why because she loved him still, but it was like she didn't have control of her hand. He didn't blink. She swore at him until she couldn't talk anymore because the gasping sobs were taking away her air, and then she crumpled onto the floor and buried her head in her palms and wept, her black hair hiding her face.  
There was no sound for several moments except for her anguished crying, and Jack still didn't say anything. Maybe he couldn't, but she could. She had been waiting for years to say something. She had been waiting for him, waiting for love, waiting for life, and she had been left empty and forgotten.

Finally she whispered through her fingers the words that had been the source of her pain for so long. "I loved you, Jack. I loved you and you left me to love alone." Her voice was so marred by tears she wondered if he could understand her, but it didn't matter anymore. She couldn't tell him that her love had survived to today, she just couldn't, but the admittance she had just made burned her heart like cold steel.

When she managed to raise her head, she saw that he had covered his face with his hands.


	11. Too Late

Peter's hands were raw from the cold covered with scratches from the wood. He had just managed to lug the last of it behind the house, and he climbed up his front steps as his neighbor led the borrowed mule and cart away. Offhandedly, he made a mental note to buy gloves soon. May would need a pair, too.

He was the oldest, only by ten months, but the oldest nonetheless. He was the man of the house now. His sister, who had just turned twenty a few months back, was the only family he had left. He took good care of her. Someday, she would probably get married, and when that day came he didn't know what he'd do other than be lonely. He found girls entertaining and enticing, but after going out on more than a couple dates he always felt smothered and felt some reason to break it off. Girls had never trusted him. That had always been Jack, in their young teenage years. They had been drawn to him like a moth to a flame, and they had been burned in the same fashion, but still they put their blind faith in him like a puppy does to its master. When Jack had taken a liking to his sister a few years back, Peter had been reluctant to allow it. Not that he could have stopped it, really, but he could have definitely discouraged it. However, Jack had promised to be careful with May and May had promised not to do anything stupid. But then Jack had left . . . and May, with the usual hurt of teenage girls, had wallowed for a few weeks and gotten over it. It had been a kid's love; Pete was firmly confirmed of that.

And now look at Jack, the heartbreaker of all heartbreakers. That Rose had him wrapped around her little finger, but it looked like the feeling was mutual. Peter was going to have to ask Jack where he landed a woman like that, for if there were any other members of the female gender like Jack's wife, Peter had never seen them. She was too beautiful for her own good and she didn't even know it.

When Peter entered his house and put his boots by the door, the first thing he noticed was his sister's sobs. He could hear them coming from her bedroom, which was strange, because her bedroom was separated from the entryway by a couple of rooms. She wasn't that loud when she spoke; the fact that he could hear her crying from all the way downstairs meant that she was hysterical. He was about to run to her when he noticed the second odd thing.

Jack Dawson was sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, staring into thick orange flame that hadn't been there when Pete had left. He looked like he had been there for awhile. What was extremely abnormal was the fact that Jack had to have been able to catch the sound of May's weeping, and he was doing nothing. That was completely unlike him. Torn between these two events, Peter didn't know which one he wanted to explore.

Luckily, Jack decided for him. He looked up from his reverie with eyes that were blank and empty, eyes that betrayed no secrets of his soul, eyes that were like drizzle – cold, unfeeling, but intent on their purpose. He was confident; he was sure. The arrows he shot across the room did not pierce but they stung Peter's heart. He didn't understand what was happening. Where had Jack gotten to be stony and hard like that? What hardships had he endured that he could completely separate himself from any and all emotion? Surely, surely, Paris couldn't have done this to him. He had been changed from the carefree boy Chippewa Falls remembered into a wanton but burdened man, and it was terrifying.

Pete tried to talk. He really did. For some reason though, his throat was caked with sand and his tongue stuck like paste. There was absolutely no sound he could make. His shirt scratched the back of his neck and his hands were still aching from the ice outside. He was afraid.

Suddenly, though, he realized something. He was in his house. A man should not be intimidated in his own house. It was every kind of horrible there was, and for the first time since Jack had come last week, he was angry. What right did this Dawson have, to just pop up here after years of being dead to the world and then to barge into Peter's house? What right did he have to make May cry? That was what got Peter Filner's blood boiling until he could actually feel into singeing his veins, for certainly that was what Jack had done. If Jack wasn't trying to comfort May, he must have caused her hurt, and Peter couldn't stand that.

"What is this?"

Jack hadn't heard that kind of coldness in Pete's voice since one summer when they were thirteen and Jack had punched him for some stupid thing or another. Now that coldness was deeper, emptier, angrier, and contrasted greatly by the heat of the flame in his eyes. May's anguished sobs continued to rip through the house.

Jack hadn't even begun to take apart what May had said about her love. It was too much for him. His cheek still stung where she had hit him, and absent-mindedly he ran his hand over the inflicted area. There were too many secrets intertwined in this small town, and he couldn't handle them all at once. His goal was still to try and find the truth about what had happened to Grace. It was the only thing occupying his mind. It cut through every other thought, burning his brain with fear. If it were true, if it were in any way at all true, this man in front of him was damned eternally in Jack's eyes. Once Jack's good opinion of a person was lost, it was lost forever. There was nothing that could retract it, and he was always right. He glared at Peter as angrily as Peter was glaring at him, and the two stares were locked for a moment, wrestling for dominance.

"I talked to Grace today," Jack said, his voice strong and clear. He tried to keep as much accusation out of his tone as he could. He wasn't even sure if Pete was involved in this at all.

And then Jack knew. He absolutely, beyond a doubt knew, for in front of him, ever so quickly, Pete's confidence had withered and died. He stood staring at Jack, pasty white with horror, the horror of someone who, finally, had been discovered. Jack's heart fell into his stomach and his face became pale and grey, grey with a terrible fury that the house had never witnessed before. The hawk of rage bloomed in his pupils and screamed in his ears. All he could hear was that horrible screeching sound of his wrath, like a train running off the tracks.

Jack wanted to yell. He wanted to curse. He wanted to beat Peter Filner within an inch of his life. But strangely, Jack could not move. In his later years, he would look back on this moment of his life and thank God for preventing him from doing something he would have regretted, but at the moment, he could hardly swallow. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, so that when he tried to talk, it came out clumsy and almost as if it were another language. He became silent.

He know longer knew the Filners. He was realizing that now. They were not the children he had grown up with anymore; they were new, terrible beings of their very own that he had forgotten and left behind to collect dust on the shelf of his past. New people had come and filled in the place they had once taken in his heart, new people that could never be replaced like they had been, new people like Rose DeWitt-Bukater and Fabrizio de Rossi. These were the ones that he adored and that he treasured in his spirit.

Somewhere, the back of his mind retrieved a picture of the Grace he had just seen hardly half an hour ago. Her eyes were empty and hurt, showing the betrayal she had faced for the whole world to see. Her very body was weak with guilt and weariness. And the worst part was, it was the man in front of him who had done this to her; it was him who had taken away the luster of Grace's smile.

"You son of a bitch," he breathed after a few silent moments, finally managing to regain control over his voice box. He was talking so quietly Peter could hardly hear him, but the venom he spat was felt throughout the whole room. "It's true, isn't it? You gave her children and left her to raise them alone. You arrogant bastard."

The air was lightly perfumed with the dying pine tree out back that Peter had dragged in a month ago for Christmas. It now lay in a bed of dry, brown needles, slowly decomposing. He should have used it for firewood but he hadn't, and now it was too late. Just like things with Grace, it was too late to go back on his mistake.

"You don't know the whole story, Dawson," he returned, his eyes on the floor and his outward voice void of any emotion. Jack had the proper and unadulterated fury of someone who was righteously angry, and Peter knew he couldn't compete with it. Those who were righteously angry always triumphed in the end. He swallowed and mentally tried to piece together some kind of attempt at an excuse. There was none.

"What . . . did . . . you . . . do?" Jack hissed, enunciating each word with bone-chilling clearness. He clenched his fists in his pant pockets. Perhaps the one thing that had hurt him most, when he had been seeing Europe, was looking at all of the helpless single mothers. They were so empty, so devoid of hope. They were at the bottom of the bottom of the world's demented social ladder. The fact that someone whom he had once been closer to than a brother had shoved a woman down to those demonic depths infuriated him and disgusted him beyond what he could ever hope to express with mere language.

"Maybe," Peter returned, the venom in his voice finally thickening to match the venom in Jack's, "Maybe you don't understand. Maybe there's more to it than you know. Maybe there's more to it than Grace knows."

Jack felt something bitter and burning in his mouth, like metal. He had to close his eyes and take several deep breaths to calm himself. There was nothing that Peter could do or say that would in anyway take away his blame in Jack's eyes. "You used her," he whispered, and again the boiling desire to punch Pete fought to the front of his mind. "You dirty, cheap tramp, you used her."

It happened so fast that Jack couldn't honestly say what had occurred. Peter's hand reached out like lightning and grabbed onto Jack's shoulder. "Don't you ever say that," he whispered with a broken fury in his voice. "Don't you dare ever say that."

_The sun played tag on the waters of Lake Wissota, each beam of light chasing the other across the rippling waves like children running in the streets. The grey of winter was finally gone, and summer had blossomed in full force. Each violently green leaf burst open against the violently blue sky, sending a chaos of color rocketing across the horizon. _

_Peter looked furtively over to the grove of bushes near where Jack was secluded. He was lying on his back with his elbows crossed underneath his head. It almost looked like he was sleeping, but Pete knew better. He was thinking. He was the one person in all of Chippewa Falls who had a mind that liked to delve deep like that; he could spend hours with his only companion being himself and his questions. He was a complicated person, though; he also made rash and quick decisions every once and awhile that he didn't completely think through before jumping into. At that, Peter began to think of his sister._

Just last night, he had warned her not to get involved with Jack. Jack was a great guy and a perfect gentleman, but he broke hearts as often as he switched shoes. He didn't mean to, but his entrancement of the girls he dated never lasted as long as theirs with him. He was a magnet in every possible sense. People of all ages and kinds were drawn to him in such a way as they couldn't escape the pull he created. It was dangerous, both for him and for them. Peter, of all people, had happened to remain the most immune to this charm. He was Jack's best friend, obviously, but he did not have a problem telling Jack when he was wrong or when he needed to cool off. This, though, this was different . . . May was blood, and Jack was almost as close to him, and he didn't want to hurt either of them. He wanted to believe, as May so obviously did, that their fling would turn into lifelong infatuation that would result in them marrying, punching out a few kids, and living happily together for the rest of their lives, but he knew Dawson and he knew his sister and he knew they would never last. They were so different; May put on an independent front, but really she needed people, and she needed their approval. She was a timid creature at heart. Jack also seemed independent on the outside, except he really was. He would never be happy loving a woman who wasn't self-efficient and who couldn't stand her own ground. He liked picking arguments with people, and if he married a girl who couldn't fight back, the marriage would end quickly.

_Peter heard a splash somewhere to his right. He swiveled his head around just in time to see a soaking Grace Malone paddle beside the shoreline of the lake a few times. Her hair was down from its twist that her mother insisted she wear it in and floated like amber rays of sunshine across the water. He allowed himself to study her as she remained oblivious to his stare and gossiped with his sister. For the first time, a realization hit him suddenly and surely that he had never seen before – Grace was beautiful. She had blossomed from a cute little girl into an absolutely amazing young woman. He carefully examined her face, with its bright smile and lively eyes. Something inside of his heart shifted when she began to giggle. He looked away because he was so shocked by the feeling that he had not expected. Even when he tried to focus on the clouds, he could see nothing but her, and it bothered him. It truly did. _

_His attentions to his new predicament were interrupted when May walked by him in pursuit for Jack, who was still motionless under the branches of an oak tree dripping with emerald leaves. Peter wanted to warn her not to go, but he stayed silent. He knew better than to insult her preference in men, and he knew that she would not listen to him. Still, he felt deeply uneasy. _Sister,_ he silently warned, his expression full with pleading, _don't give all of your heart to someone who won't give you any of his.

_"Get in the water, Peter," Grace called out. He turned to her as the breeze lifted her hair off her forehead, and in that second she was perhaps the most stunning creature he had ever seen. He didn't like it. Ashamed, he turned away, but the light that he had seen in her jeweled brown eyes continued to mock him with its magnetic force. He saw her as another little sister, really, and he cared for her in a brotherly way . . . or did he?_

_She splashed him, and she continued to jeer him, trying to get him to retaliate and come after her. One thing she maybe didn't understand, though, was that Peter Filner was an extremely practical mind. His emotions never got the best of him. Each movement was calculated, precise. His character was not made out of the spontaneous, but rather out of the predictable and what he knew he could rely on._

_He knew that he couldn't let himself go to her. He would lose it. He sat on the grass with his eyes closed, trying to think about anything that would get his mind off of his sister's best friend. He ignored her voice and instead began to remember a speech that they had been made to memorize at school. Four score and seven years ago . . ._

_There was a sound next to him on the bank of the lake, soft and light, much like a doe makes as she slips through the forest. Then he felt a wet ankle cross over his bare foot. He clenched his teeth, and continued with the recitation in his mind. Our fathers created . . . on this continent . . ._

_This had never happened to him before. He couldn't think. He tried to remember the next words in Abraham Lincoln's address, but they wouldn't come to him. The next thing he knew, his lips were on Grace's, and he didn't even mind that he hadn't thought about it beforehand._

_This was something that didn't need any preplanning. _

Both men were silent for seconds, hours maybe, not even breathing, not daring to move. The tension between them cracked and sizzled like a live wire. Neither understood the other; neither allowed their souls to open wide enough to understand the other. The damned stubborn prides of both of them were in a wordless struggle.

Even the sobs of May had vanished into the background. She was still there, believe it or not. Sometimes she felt like no one even knew she existed. Her own brother had not come up to her, even though he had to have heard her. Although Jack was a compassionate spirit, he had not attempted to comfort her. These thoughts, as they ran through her mind, had the stringy and unconnected feel of a nickelodeon. It was almost as if she were standing outside of herself, and watching herself go through this struggle.

In an eerily detached way, she scraped her thumbnail against the post of her bed. The small scratch she had managed to make in the wood widened into a gash. She sat on the floor with a blanket wrapped around her, covering her entire body to the tips of her toes. She was very calm. Her mind was not clear, no, but it was just finally so foggy that she gave up seeing at all. Tears were dried on her face, leaving shiny paths where they had run down her cheeks. Again and again she scraped the post with her thumbnail, methodically. Splinters dug into her skin and speckles of blood shone like rubies underneath the light of the dreary winter day.

She couldn't see how life would ever go on for her. Every single one of her dreams and hopes and desires that she had so carefully built and mantled onto a kite to fly in the sky had been shattered. The rest of her years would be empty . . . her heart was broken, and so was her soul. One who has had a broken heart will never be the same again, but one with a broken soul is better off dead.

The snow had never seemed quite so beautiful to her. Each snowflake unwound from the silver sky like a pure white ribbon, falling and fluttering until it finally snuggled itself into the ground, next to the billions of others that had gone before it. She watched each one with rapt attention, trying to define the delicate and perfect shapes of the snowflakes. They were so wonderfully orchestrated and carefully made that she wondered if God loved them as much as she did.

A lone bird, maybe the only one that hadn't migrated south for the winter, cautiously picked its way across the frozen ground. One of its wings looked broken. Maybe it was doomed to die. It looked so lovely with its golden feathers. Perhaps something that was doomed to die could still be lovely. She closed her eyes softly, trying to burn the golden bird and the silver snowflakes into her mind forever.

Then, ever so gracefully, she rose from the floor and glided over to her closet. Far in the back of her wardrobe, near the corner pilled high with moth balls, she found her mother's wedding dress. She remembered that her mother had left it behind when her parents moved out to California. It was old. It hadn't even been stylish when her mother had worn it. The neck was too high and the sleeves were too full. It hardly came down to the ankle. She took it off of its hanger and pressed it to her chest like one would a long lost child, burying her face in the dank and musty fabric.

As she pulled it over her head, her hair got snagged on one of the buttons that criss-crossed the back of the gown. The hair was yanked out of her scalp. She didn't even feel it. The black lock fell, flawless and shining, to the floor. For a moment, she stared at it in confusion. Was it really hers? May had almost forgotten that she had a physical body at all; she felt so formless and empty. That was the word to describe her: empty. She really wasn't even thinking anything. There was no more feeling, no more dreaming, no more wishing. Everything that had made her alive and throbbing with vivacity had been extinguished. If someone had happened to glance at her in this moment, they would have been horrified. May was nothing but a shell of a person; she was nothing but a ghost. Perhaps that's how stories of physical ghosts were created – from the observation of a ghost of a soul. However, no one was there to see her. No one was with her to trap her spirit and keep it in her body, so it left her. She was utterly and terribly alone. It was as if she had always been this lonely. Hadn't she? Had there ever been a time when she had been loved? Were all the memories only wisps of desire that danced in her mind?

She began to button up the dress. There was a veil somewhere back in the wardrobe, but she did not get it. Veils were to shield the innocent from the world, to hide purity from those unworthy to see it. May was no longer innocent or pure. Jack Dawson had taken that as surely as he would have if he had possessed her physically. He had done even worse, for he had possessed her very soul. Strangely, though, she bore him no animosity. There wasn't a shred of anger in her being. She was simply very sad, to the point where she was now drowning in something as evil as regret. No hand reached to pull her out and she was not strong enough to do it by herself. She wished desperately that she was strong enough.

The dress almost fit her like it had her mother. She had always thought it ugly, but suddenly it seemed magnificent. Its whiteness somehow made her feel as if she could recapture some of her virtue that had been taken from her by her hurt. With her eyelids ever so softly shut, she again saw herself as a little girl who was unblemished by the ways of the world. She slipped out her door, without even understanding that she was doing it, and went into Peter's bedroom. The next thing she knew she was rummaging in his bureau made out of cherry wood, which he had forgotten to lock.

May had never been sure if she truly believed in Heaven, but right now, on this bitter winter day, she looked past the drapes and up to the sky. Through the bare and naked branches of an old oak, she saw a dim light that struggled behind the clouds. She could hear something . . . something haunting but lovely in its own way, something that she knew had to be angels. God reaffirmed in her that, yes, there was a Heaven, and He opened the door to it just enough for her to see how gloriously it shone.

There was no use in apologizing to God, or to Peter, or to Jack. She had nothing to say. She had run out of words and run out of time and run out of the will to live. Maybe she had never really had any. It didn't matter. Ever so carefully, her delicate hands lifted a small wooden box painted white out of the bureau. She removed the lid. Her soft fingers wrapped around the cold, hard handle of a pistol.

Perhaps, as twisted as it sounds, everyone holds some sort of romantic view of suicide. They think of leaving a beautifully dramatic note stained with tears. They imagine how much they will be mourned, and how maybe in their death, people will finally come to love them. This idea is what the media portrays suicide to be. It wasn't, however, even partially close to what was going through May Filner's mind. To be honest, nothing was going through her mind at all, save one thought: the pain had to end. She couldn't bear it anymore.

It was freezing outside, but it was still not as cold as her heart. She moved ever so slowly to the window and pulled up the glass pane. Immediately, icy wind rushed into the bedroom and wove through her hair. The pale light of a weak sun surrounded her in an ethereal glow. No one had ever looked as angelic as May did in that second. She closed her eyes and tried to soak in some of this feeling: the loving caress of the breeze, the adoring brush of the snowflakes that danced through the window and into the bedroom. It was the gentlest she had been touched for years. There is nothing as heartbreaking as a person deprived of love.

The pistol was loaded. She had known it would be. She did not cry; she had cried her entire life, and she was done now. This window was near the back of the house, and it showed a wonderful view of the frozen plains that stretched beyond the tiny town of Chippewa Falls. She had never lived anywhere else in her life. There were trains at the station in Eau Claire. They reminded her that there were places other than here, far better places, places that once could have been her salvation. She had waited too long and held out for too many years, and now it was too late.

May didn't say anything eloquent. She didn't go crazy with rage, either. She was absolutely silent. On the rooftop of the old carriage house that her father had made into a shed, she again saw the lovely golden bird with the broken wing. Then she lifted the pistol to her head, released the safety, and pulled the trigger.

The shot echoed through the house.


	12. Understanding

The cold sudden feeling that spreads itself through one's body when they suddenly realize something horrible was all that Jack felt for a second after he heard the gunshot. It was like someone had injected horror into him as tangibly as an addict shoots himself with heroin. It traveled up his spine and numbed him to where he couldn't move. The first few seconds after the sound seemed like several dozen eons. He looked at the tattered rug in front of the dancing orange fire and the old faded photographs mounted on the wooden walls. He memorized the little rips in the emerald curtains that framed the windows. He observed the pattern of the grain in the wood of the rocking chair that had been there since he could remember. He saw the snow falling outside, masking all noise from reaching him, separating him from the rest of the world and from all of the truth.

Then the security of the snow faded and reality slammed into him at a million miles an hour.

He was running before he had completely comprehended what was happening. Peter hadn't moved yet, but Jack wasn't thinking about that. He didn't even know there was a Peter. The world had completely narrowed and encompassed nothing but that sound. He recognized it and he knew what it was, but he didn't connect the sound with an action. It was impossible for him to do so. There are times when the human brain absolutely refuses to take in horror of a certain degree, and that was what was happening to Jack.

In the unreal and dizzying quality of a dream, he made it to the door that was open to the left and led to a bedroom. The surroundings in front of him visibly blurred as if the entire scene before him was just in his mind, and not really here at all. One of the two windows in the bedroom was thrown open. Icy air seeped into the house. A candle was burning on a table in the hallway and, horrified, he watched as a particularly strong gust of wind blew it out like the breath of a ghost. The image of the smoldering, lonely wick embedded itself in his mind; it would return in his nightmares again and again throughout his life.

Then he turned his head back to the left.

The moment he crossed the threshold, he knew there was something terribly wrong. A tangible darkness, almost like an invisible demon, weighed on him and ate at his soul. It was too silent and too still. The temperature continued to dive. Sheer drapes flapped in the winter breeze.

Slowly, detached from himself, he swiveled on the spot to where the bed was. It didn't click, at first, when he saw May lying in a pool of blood with a gun in her limp hand. The beautiful white dress she wore was stained crimson. Her lovely black hair was matted with red, and her eyes were open and boldly staring at the ceiling. One of her feet dangled over the edge of the bed, while the other had been drawn up next to her. Suddenly her free hand, which lay peacefully on her chest, clenched.

The guttural breath that she then drew made him scream. He screamed and screamed and screamed, and didn't stop until he felt two hands on his shoulders yanking him outside the room, down the stairs, and out of the house. Then he fell into the snow and wept.

Jack had confronted God more times than he would ever admit to. How many black nights had he laid in bed, tormented with nightmares, screaming to his Creator? Sometimes, every once and awhile, he heard a response. They came in the soft voice of a breeze or the beautiful promise of dawn, in the gleaming eye of a child or the lofty magnificence of a cathedral, in things that struck him suddenly and heavily with God's infinite power. More often than not, though, all that he heard was the heavy silence. Maybe his heart just wasn't listening hard enough. Maybe he was too consumed in himself, too selfish, to hear the voice of the One who loved him, even as he cursed and struggled. Whatever the reason, as he begged and pleaded and cried on that winter day in Wisconsin, there was no answer.

The cold was something he didn't feel. He stood outside the hospital in Eau Claire, and there was nothing. No ache, no prickling sensation. He was nothing but a ghost, hardly there at all, in another world, in another time. His pain even dulled as the minutes continued to tick by. There was just the most terrifying emptiness in his soul. This emptiness crept through his very bloodstream, until if someone had asked him his name, he wouldn't have been able to remember it. He was on another plane of reality entirely. There are people who, like May, appear to be no longer flesh and bone, just spirit. There are also people who appear to no longer have a spirit, who are just flesh and bone, like Jack.

A hearse, drawn by two mules, was sitting in wait in front of the hospital. The mules stomped their feet and shook their manes to keep warm as their silvery breaths entwined in a cloud around their heads. Snowflakes dotted their brown coats like a few grains of salt thrown onto a pile of pepper. The driver was buried in a thick wool coat up to his ears and had a ragged fur hat crammed onto his head. His boots came up to his knees. He covered his face with his collar and blew furiously into his gloved hands. It was probably one of the most furiously cold days that Wisconsin had endured for several years. The temperature had been driven below zero, and a breeze made staying outside deadly, at least without the proper garments. It hadn't started out this cold, not even in the morning, but the air had gotten continuously icier as the day progressed. Even the trees shivered with the blast of the wind. The very hearse itself seemed to chatter on its old, rickety wagon wheels.

How long Jack had been standing in this murderous weather he didn't know. He wasn't thinking anything. There was a lifelessness about him that made him hard to distinguish from the corpse that two men carried out from the hospital on a stretcher, limp underneath a white sheet. A woman followed them, dressed in a stiff skirt and a starched grey jacket. Her hair was swept up and an emblem of the medical community was visible on her collar, sewn just above the seam. With the cold indifference of a scientist, Jack watched as the stretcher was loaded into the back of the hearse and the driver asked the woman a few questions as he made some notes on a piece of paper. Then he cracked his whip and the hearse pulled away. The woman turned around to re-enter the building, and the two men followed her. There was a moment when she saw the lone man in the courtyard standing up to his shins in snow and looked at him with disbelief, almost seeming to wonder if he were real. Then she stopped.

"What are you doing out here?" Her voice was rough and husky and low, not matching her sweet, young face. "Are you out of your mind? You're going to die! Look how blue your lips are! Are you lost? Come with me." All of these questions and commands were strung together so quickly that Jack didn't even have time to register what she was saying, so he stubbornly refused to. He looked at her with dull eyes coated in a glaze of so much hurt that they were unable to see. A few moments later, he was in the hospital. He hadn't felt her wheeling him around and pushing him in front of her through the door. A huge furnace in the center of the waiting room spread heat through the building as tangibly as long, warm fingers, and all of the sudden Jack's body was on fire from the unforeseen, drastic change in temperatures. He tried to scream, but no sound was emitted from his throat. It was almost like he wasn't inside of himself anymore. The woman had disappeared. All of the sudden a crowd of nurses surrounded him, feeling him, touching his forehead, obviously thinking he had hypothermia. He was too confused to fight them off, and instead his breathing became shallow and rapid with claustrophobia. One lone, big tear rolled down his smooth cheek and splashed onto the tile even as he stumbled from the hands that were everywhere on him. No one came to help him.

The door was thrown open so quickly that it banged against the wall with enough force and sound to make everyone within earshot look up, including Jack. The person he saw standing in the doorway brought him back to Earth with such gravity that he felt like he had literally been thrown to the ground. Rose was next to him in less than half a second, and then he was in her arms and his face was buried in her hair and it seemed like maybe he could think again. He felt her shake when he touched her because his skin was icy, but he needed her so terribly that he was too selfish to let her go. All at once, he began to convulse with great, gasping sobs, but they were dry. No more tears would fall.

"I heard," she said quietly again and again, like it was too much effort to raise her voice to anything above a whisper. "Oh my God, Jack, I'm so sorry . . . I came as soon as I found out . . . Oh my God, oh my God . . ." He crushed her to him and they stood in the middle of the room, both dripping wet with melting snow. Everyone stayed back from them with a kind of religious awe, as if they were afraid to step in the aura of something so powerful and so tragically beautiful.

"I don't know what happened," he whispered painfully. "She was lying in blood . . . and by the time they got her here she had stopped breathing . . . I don't know if the doctors can save her . . ." That was all he was able to make himself say. He leaned on her like a dying man, trying to drink everything that was her like she was the only thing that could save him. Perhaps she was. They held onto each other, their hurt filling up the hospital like water, the hearts broken and weeping even when their eyes couldn't anymore.

Peter could not be made to leave the operating room. It didn't matter how much the staff berated him or how severely he was threatened. His feet might as well have been hewn out of stone into the tile. There was no way he could leave. They even tried to physically push him out, but he was as solid as granite. His skin had lost all healthy color and hovered on that hue that is somewhere between white and green. He kept a hand firmly clasped over his mouth, as if he were afraid that if it were removed he would vomit.

There aren't words that are adequate enough to describe the torment going on in his anguished soul. There was a blackness there that would leave its mark eternally and never completely fade away, thereby staining his life forever. There was a hate bubbling up within him that would plague him until he died, and maybe after. There was a hurt being born there, somewhere deep within the folds of his insides, that would continue to sting him for years and years. But most of all, there was desperation.

May was all he had left. His parents were gone; they had moved years ago and he had given up ever seeing them again. Grace was not his. He had been stupid to think she ever had been or that she ever would be. Jack was someone he didn't even know anymore. No, he knew that May was it. He loved her like he would never be able to love anyone else. Had he showed it all the time? Of course not. But that love which he had so long ignored or underplayed suddenly reared its head now, in this dark hour, and it was awakened in the form of guilt. What had happened in his bedroom before that gunshot went off would always remain a mystery to him. He did not understand anything, and in the first initial moments he refused to believe that May had done herself any harm at all. It seemed impossible to him that she could want to hurt something as lovely and pure as herself. It was like trying to kill a doe trying to kill a gazelle or a dove trying to kill a swan. Unthinkable.

His eyes weren't really transmitting what he was seeing to his brain. Vaguely, he made out a man in a white coat cutting open the right side of May's head, just above her ear. That side happened to be turning away from him, so he couldn't clearly get the picture of what was happening. He heard the panic in the doctor's voice and the fear in the voice of his assistants. How long this went on, Peter could not say. He tore his stare away from the operation, but he could not tear it away from May's face.

She might as well have already passed on into another world. Her lips were the color of paper. She could not close her eyes, even though it had once appeared that she was trying to. Now, absolutely unconscious, there was no more effort. Those beautiful blue eyes the color of the lake or the sky right before the end of dusk threw him into a chasm of pain. He started to remember things he hadn't thought of in a decade. There she was as a two-year-old, giggling and stumbling across the green lawn with heavy, awkward steps. Then she was five, and her eyes were the size of tennis balls when Peter showed her a butterfly that had just come out of its cocoon. When she was nine she had gotten lost in the woods, and Peter had searched for her for hours. He remembered the bile that had built up in the back of his throat that had tasted bitter with fear. He remembered how he, a mere eleven years old, had been willing to venture any danger he encountered just to find her safe. He probably would have died to protect her. At fifteen, when an older man had come onto her, he almost had. For her whole life, he had been watching out for her and fighting anything that threatened her happiness or wellbeing, even if she hadn't seen it. The one thing though, the one thing that he had so stupidly neglected to shield her against, was the one thing that had the most access to her – herself.

He didn't cry. In all the years he had left on Earth, Peter Filner would never cry again.

"Paralyzed."

The first word to be released from Jack's mouth for the past several hours was said in the tone of a croak. It was hardly distinguishable as a word at all, yet everyone is his vicinity understood it. It was the same exact word that was running through their minds, the same one imprinted on the folds of their brain. What was it, really, except a slightly longer death sentence? How would it feel to be trapped in a body that you did not control anymore, that was just as equally a prison as a tomb is?

The bullet had been removed from May's head. It was somewhere in this very hospital. It was only about an inch long. It had altered a countless number of lives forever. Peter had been asked if he wanted it, and his disgust had choked out the angry curses that he had wanted to reply with. Instead, he had glared at the doctor in contempt. That had been enough; the bullet would never resurface again.

May was hanging onto life by a very delicate thread. Had she known anything about the human body, she would have altered her aim to guarantee her death. Instead, she had shot herself just so that the piece of metal discharged from the weapon had lodged itself right above her ear. It had destroyed a part of her brain that controlled her lower body movement, and she would be paralyzed from the waist down until she died, be it in five minutes or fifty years. Her hearing was permanently damaged. She was probably completely deaf in the ear that had suffered the direct hit.

This verdict was given in the detached way that all hospitals are subject to. The "I'm sorry" from the doctor wasn't nearly sufficient, so it was ignored. When he left, three people stood stunned in the corner of the room. The healthy girl that they had been to church earlier that morning was now an invalid that had one foot in the grave. It had all happened so quickly and with such an impossible quality that it might still be a dream. For all Rose knew, this entire thing could all be a dream, and she could wake up in two seconds back in her stateroom on the _Titanic_. She felt as if she were lost in an indescribably thick haze, so that she couldn't see where she was putting her feet. The very next step might be a plunge into an abyss.

"That's it then," Peter said, gruffly. He turned and tromped down the hallway, off into the maze of rooms that was the hospital. Undoubtedly, he did not know where he was going. Undoubtedly, he did not care. Rose looked tenderly after his retreating back, all of his earlier and hideous discretions gone. She knew how vicious his turmoil had become, and she knew how bottomless the pit of his pain was. Even in her own confusion, she recognized that there was no way he could bear this alone. His soul would not survive.

"Wait," she called out after him, so softly that she didn't think he would hear her. He stopped, but he didn't turn to face her. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his coat, and his brown hair was matted from how he had raked his fingers through it. When she went to him, she was startled by how dull and barren his eyes were. She bit her lip with fear and compassion and a horrible sorrow that all mixed together to form a haunting grief. For a few moments, the two of them stood staring at each other in silence. Peter's desolate gaze suddenly turned harsh and defensive, as if he were afraid that she was going to slap him or even worse, blame him. He looked like a dog that had been backed into a corner and was ready to kill to escape.

The way that she looked back at him transcended the need for words. Her eyes conveyed such an ethereal and otherworldly sadness that he didn't understand it at first. They were the eyes of an angel that was looking upon a tortured spirit, full of a beautifully sincere empathy. His angry resistance fell away to be replaced by brokenness. Then she closed the space between them and lifted her arms around him like a mother would to a child, letting him bend over and bury his face into her hair. His body jerked and he pulled her closer to him until he was holding onto her like she was his life preserver, his hope, his sanctuary. She felt his entire form shake against hers, but not a single tear fell from his eyes.

_Oh Peter,_ she thought sadly, _why won't you let yourself cry?_


End file.
